Page 50 of Hideaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #4)

She takes Kendall from Elliott, and he scoops me up with a hand around my back and the other under my knees to carry me bridal style across the yard.

All of us, including the dogs, enter the private entrance off the back patio into Layla and Russell’s bedroom.

She hustles me into her massive en-suite bathroom with its modern black herringbone tiles, crystal clean glass shower, and standalone tub that I’d ask to soak in at some point if it weren’t too weird.

“This is Eden, the best makeup artist in all of Texas,” Layla says of the woman I had yet to meet, having laid out a plethora of products in every shade imaginable.

Since I knew I’d cry off all my foundation and mascara at the ceremony if I wore any, Layla has arranged to have my makeup professionally done before Elliott and I are introduced at the reception as husband and wife.

Eden, with her soft brown curls and gorgeous makeup, motions me onto a tall, director-style chair straight off a movie set as she studies my face. “So, what are we thinking? Neutral, smoky, full-glam?”

“I’m not sure.” I don’t have much experience with makeup except for heavy-duty concealer, since we never had any in the desert, and I didn’t have much reason to wear it while serving cheap entrées at the rundown restaurant.

Eden eyes my dress and wedding rings. “Soft gothic romance would look gorgeous on you. Heavy on the smoke on the outer corners of your eyes with a pop of a red shadow, black winged eyeliner, and, ooooh, I have just the right muted shade of maroon lipstick that would go great with your complexion. How does that sound?”

When I exit the bathroom forty-five minutes later, transformed into a starlet with a step-by-step tutorial of how to apply all the makeup Eden used and has gifted me with, Elliott says, “I’ve never cried this much in my life.

” He hurries to take a handful of tissues from the box Layla provides, scrubbing his face.

“You really are going to be the death of me, Birdie.”

“Wouldn’t that be fitting?” I ask with a sly grin, walking my fingers up his chest, his suit jacket discarded on the emerald green, king-sized bed where the kids are currently lounging, the dogs curled in the corner on the floor.

“Though I’ll rip you right out of the ground if you so much as think to—”

Someone cracks the bedroom door, a den of excited voices rising above the low, moody instrumental music playing in the background that brings goosebumps to my arms. I’ve never been much for music, treasuring the short bouts of silence I’ve managed to carve out of my otherwise chaotic life, but there’s something about the melancholy notes, a famous song played in what I think is called a minor key, that is oddly soothing.

“Are you two lovebirds ready yet?” Russell asks.

“Yes!” Sydney yells, bouncing off the bed first and smoothing down her dress. “I’m so bored.”

“And hungry,” Dustin adds.

I laugh, taking a long, deep breath, slipping my fingers between Elliott’s. “Ready when you are,” I tell my husband.

Elliott

When Russell introduces us as Mr. and Mrs. Elliott and Teagan Berenson, the crowd collectively throws up their hands and voices with cheers, and I have the immediate impulse to retreat back into the bedroom.

Never have I had so much attention on me since my murder trial, and it’s nerve-racking until Birdie pumps my hand, reminding me I don’t have to face the spectators all alone.

While the kids take off to play with their friends, like a King and Queen receiving their audience in a grand chamber adorned in black and silver fabric and florals, members of our community line up to introduce themselves and offer congratulations.

They have kindly stuck to the jewel-tone dress code, else Russell would have had no problem turning them away at the door.

Though I personally know all of them, even if I haven’t had much interaction with them in recent years, as I had increasingly isolated myself, I am just as overwhelmed as Birdie.

Toward the end, the retired old-timers, who practically live at Granny’s Diner and somehow sustain themselves on an unhealthy amount of coffee and pancakes, introduce themselves as a group.

Out of all of them, Old Freddy is the one I know best. His familiar mischievous smile spreads across his dark brown face beneath short silver curls, and it’s with a sudden surge of emotions that I let go of Birdie’s hand and carefully pull the man who was as much a father figure to me as my dad was when I was growing up into a hug.

“Thank you for being here,” I say, getting choked up.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You know that.

” He taps my back with a raspy chuckle when the hug ends, quickly wiping away a stray tear.

“It was these old farts,” he says, wagging his thumb toward his friends, “who needed to see it to believe it, but I always knew your time would come. Plus, you earned me a pretty penny, and it’s time to collect.

” He holds out a palm turned up to the side.

Pete’s bushy gray mustache twitches on his sun-aged tan face.

He pulls a mini spiral notebook and golf pencil from his suit jacket, flips to a back page, and crosses out a line of going bets—of which they’ll bet on anything and everything.

Then he produces a large wad of folded cash and slaps it in Freddy’s palm.

“Still not quite sure I believe it,” Pete says.

“Believe what?” Birdie asks, ducking under my arm to hug my side.

“That it would eventually catch up to him.” Pete’s eyes soften on my bride. “But I sure am happy for you, even if you cost me the vacation to Argentina I was planning to take this summer.”

“What would catch up to him?” she asks.

“The whirlwind,” Freddy answers, pocketing the cash.

Birdie is momentarily stunned. “So you really believe in this ‘whirlwind’ thing, too?”

“Of course, I do,” Freddy says. “I proposed to my Maria four weeks to the day after we met.”

He’d told me it was fate that brought the perfect woman for him and her car into his shop to be serviced.

I had thought, at the time, who wouldn’t fall in love with the woman with a swoop of black curls, bright red lipstick, and the kind of laugh that made everyone’s head turn?

That’s not fate—it’s good sense. And also, Freddy’s was the only mechanic shop in town.

Merely convenient. I know differently now.

“How is Maria?” Mickey asks, his skin more freckles than anything else in his deeply lined face. “I heard she came in first place at the…at the…what was it?”

Freddy’s smile turns doleful, soon replaced with concern since Maria passed nine years ago, her last winning entry from the International Quilt Festival in Houston enshrined in a place of honor at our county library.

“Come on, Mickey,” Pete says, taking his elbow and leading him away, shuffling their feet so Mickey doesn’t trip, helping him to sit on the couch.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” I ask of Mickey’s Alzheimer’s.

Freddy says with a nod, “‘Fraid so. Congratulations again.” He says his goodbyes to sit with his friends of nearly sixty years.

The kids are causing a ruckus when we move deeper into the house. Or rather, only two in particular—strike that, one , and it’s not the least bit surprising.

Wyatt’s son, William, who is closer to Sydney’s age, stomps his boot and points at Lily, playing dolls with Kendall on the floor. “She’s my pumpkin! Mine!”

“She’s a baby. And a girl. Girl babies are gross,” Dustin says, getting in William’s face.

Misunderstanding what Dustin said, William yells, “My baby red, not yours!” As large and bulky as William is, Dustin is still bigger at six years old and doesn’t budge when William pushes him.

“Lord, help me,” Wyatt says, pushing between our guests to pick up William when his son tries to push Dustin again, who only sticks out his tongue.

Lily finally looks up when Wyatt carries William toward the foyer. She pouts, then calls out for him, “Illy Willy!”

William tries to wriggle out of his pops’ arms, screaming, “Baby red!”

As soon as Lily pushes up to follow the pair, Kendall does, too. My guess is they’ll be joined at the hip as they grow older, and I find I like that a whole lot, my little girl having already made a best friend.

Birdie moves to go after them, but Davis rushes past. “I’ll keep an eye on the girls. ”

And don’t I know it, since he’s not too fond of William’s antics when it comes to his daughter.

Layla pulls Birdie aside with a giggle at Davis’s irritated expression, joining Dolly, Goldie, Faye, Violet, Cora, and Mckinley standing in a circle.

Birdie and I preferred there not be any alcohol served, so they’re sipping from their mocktails after passing one to my wife.

Of course, I follow like a hound dog, though I linger at the outer rim of the circle.

I’ve had enough eye contact and conversation to last me for the next few years.

“Tennessee?” a woman questions from the direction of where the men and toddlers had disappeared.

It is only for the reason that I’m staring at Birdie’s fine ass, wondering how long we have to stay here before we can go home so I can get my hands and teeth on said ass, that I notice her infinitesimal reaction.

Though I mentally have to slam my walls down on my compulsion to reach for my missing shotgun that Birdie told me was best to leave at home, I can’t do the same with my expression.

“Tennessee?” Deputy Cooke asks again, looking uncomfortable out of her uniform, wearing a dark blue dress and heels. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

I’m the only one who knows the name Birdie was born with, yet the women all close in on her protectively when she turns with me at her back, my arm going around her.

“It’s Teagan,” Layla says, correcting Cooke with some confusion and a slight frown, since Cooke was most definitely not on our guest list. She’s too kind to demand that Cooke leave after crashing our reception.

I’m not . “Get out.”

Cooke doesn’t startle like many would. In fact, she looks me squarely in the face and says, “I only need a minute.”

Though the old static doesn’t push its way in, a dangerous darkness hovers at the edges of my mind. “No. You weren’t invited.”

Cooke’s ribs expand when she takes a deep breath before she brings her attention back to Birdie. “Listen, I know we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances.”

Birdie remains silent, laying her arm over mine, tipping her chin up to stare Cooke down the length of her nose, despite being shorter than Cooke.

“I wanted to reintroduce myself,” Cooke says.

“On our wedding day?” I ask, my voice dropping low, ready to snatch my wife and kids up should Cooke try anything.

Cooke nods. “As Interim Sheriff until the election, I thought it best to make the rounds and let people know things will be changing around here. I won’t be as… lenient …as Sheriff Gibson had been in the past.”

“You came here to threaten us?” Layla asks, waving to someone behind me.

It’s no surprise when Russell pushes his way in beside Layla. Nor is it when the other husbands sense the trouble brewing and make their way over. Many of us have had our run-ins with the County Sheriff’s Office, and friendly or not, they’re all immediately on guard.

“It’s not a threat unless you’re on the wrong side of the law,” Cooke says coolly, not at all intimidated by our united front, which I have to give her props for, even if I don’t like it.

She opens her small, gold purse hanging from a chain on her shoulder, holding up a photograph that none of us reach for.

“Some things, however, will not change.”

She only transferred to our town a few years ago, so she doesn’t have the same loyalty or leniency toward us as Sheriff Gibson did—good for the county, potentially bad for us if things never calm down.

Russell and I cut a look to one another that says we might need to come up with a plan to somehow get rid of Cooke, though violence isn’t on the table.

She doesn’t deserve that, even if she does pose a threat.

“It’s time for you to go,” Russell says, moving in front of Layla.

Instead of shrinking, Cooke asks, “Have any of you heard of the Zeraxists?”

Birdie tenses, her blood pressure sure to be rising along with mine, which can’t be good for the baby, and the swirling darkness thickens in my mind.

Cooke’s tone changes, less defensive, though she stares directly at Birdie when she says, “I read about them recently and what they did to the women and children. Like this girl here, believed to be named Tennessee Chambers, who disappeared before the raid on the cult’s compound.

” She taps the zoomed-in photo of who is clearly Birdie as a teenager, hanging laundry on the line with the desert sun beating down on her.

Her large baby bump tents her bright orange dress close to the color of her dyed hair.

It sickens me. “Since you two are from Vegas,” Cooke says to Goldie and Birdie, “and might have come across her, I’d want her to know that if she ever found her way here, she’d be safe. ”

“Never seen her before,” Goldie says, quickly plucking the photograph, dropping her arm at her side without looking at it, her pale cheeks turning red with the obvious lie.

“Well, if you ever do, I hope you’ll pass along the message.

” Cooke gives our group a tight smile before she turns to leave, stopping midway when she sees Dustin now settled at a child- sized table with Sydney, eating slices of cheese pizza provided for the children who don’t want any of the fancier fare catered for the adults.

“So would her kids,” Cooke adds over her shoulder before she finally waltzes out.

“Are you ok?” I whisper, spinning Birdie around when she slumps. Goldie discreetly slips the photo into my hand, and I slide it into the front pocket of my slacks.

“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say her wedding gift was a solid ten, knowing Tennessee and her kids will be left alone,” she says, pushing her hand into my pocket.

Flashing her teeth with a wicked smile, she takes the photograph, crumples it in her fist, and turns to ask the group, “Does anyone have a lighter?”