The Marriage Agenda. Allison Leigh
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stepped around her. “Hubert…”
“Ugh. Wha? Oh. Dek.”
“Right. Come on, man. Let’s go…”
“Ugh…”
“Yeah. You need to stretch out.”
“Uh-uh…”
Dekker took Uncle Hubert’s arm and wrapped it across his broad shoulder. Uncle Hubert moaned. He kept saying no and shaking his head. But he didn’t pull away. Slowly Dekker turned him around and got him moving.
Joleen went on ahead, warning the other guests out of the way, opening the back door, leading the way through the kitchen and into the hall. Uncle Hubert would probably be most comfortable upstairs in one of the bedrooms, but she didn’t know how far he’d be willing to let Dekker drag him. So she settled for the living room.
“Here,” she said, “on the couch.” She tossed away her mother’s favorite decorative pillows as she spoke, then spread an old afghan across the cushions. It would provide some protection if Uncle Hubert’s poor stomach decided to rebel again.
Dekker eased the other man down. Uncle Hubert fell onto his back with a long, low groan.
“Let’s get his shoes off,” said Dekker, already kneeling at Uncle Hubert’s feet. Before he had the second shoe off, Uncle Hubert was snoring. Dekker set the shoes, side by side, beneath the coffee table. “They’ll be right here whenever he needs them.”
Joleen stood over her uncle, shaking her head. “It seems like we ought to do something, doesn’t it? We shouldn’t let him go on hurting himself this way.”
Uncle Hubert had lost his wife, Thelma, six months ago. The heavy beer drinking had started not long after that.
“Give him time,” Dekker said. “He’ll work it out.”
“I hope he works it out soon. A man’s liver can only take so much.”
“He will,” Dekker said. “He’ll get through it.”
They were good words to hear, especially from Dekker, who had never been the most optimistic guy on the block. “You sound so certain.”
He winked at her. “I oughtta know, don’t you think?”
They shared a long look, one full of words they didn’t really need to say out loud.
Three years ago, Dekker’s wife, Stacey, had died. His mama, Lorraine, had passed away not long after. Dekker had done quite a bit of drinking himself in the months following those two sad events.
Dekker said, “Maybe you ought to start whipping up a few casseroles.”
It was a joke between them now, how Joleen had kept after him, dropping in at his place several times a week, pouring his booze down the drain and urging him to “talk out his pain.”
He wouldn’t talk. But she wouldn’t give up on him, either. She brought him casseroles to make sure he ate right and kept dragging him out to go bowling and to the movies. Good, nourishing food and a few social activities had made a difference.
It had also brought them closer. She was, after all, five years younger than Dekker. Five years, while they were growing up, had seemed like a lifetime. Almost as if they were of different generations.
But it didn’t seem that way anymore. Now they were equals.
They were best friends.
She said, “You still have not bothered to tell me why you thought you had to fly off to Los Angeles out of nowhere like that.”
“Later,” he said. “There’s a lot to tell and now is not the time.”
“Were you…in danger?”
“No.”
“Was it something for a client?”
“Jo. Please. Not now.”
On the couch, Hubert stiffened, snorted and then went on snoring even louder than before.
Dekker said, “I think we’ve done all we can for him at the moment.”
“Guess so. Might as well get back to the party. We’re probably out of frilly toothpicks again.”
Dekker grinned. “DeDe grabbed me a few minutes ago. Something about cutting the cake?”
“No. It’s too early. They’re still attacking the buffet table. But it is a little cooler now. Safe to get everything set up.”
“Safe?”
“That’s right. We can chance taking the cake back outside.”
“This sounds ominous.”
“A wedding can be a scary time.”
“Tell me about it.”
She took his big, blunt-fingered hand. “Come on.”
They left Uncle Hubert snoring on the couch and went out to the kitchen, where they enlisted Burly to help Dekker carry the cake back out to the patio.
* * *
Once the cake was in position for cutting, Joleen went looking for Niki and Sam. She found them on the front porch, building a castle out of Duplo blocks.
“Mama. Look.” Sam beamed her his biggest, proudest smile.
“Wonderful job, baby.” She asked Niki, “Did he eat anything yet?”
Niki nodded. “He had some corn. And that fruit dish—the one with the coconut? Oh, and he ate about five of those little meatballs.”
“Milk?”
“Yeah—and what’s with those Atwood people?”
What do you mean? Joleen wanted to demand. What did they do?
She held the questions back. Sam might be only eighteen months old, but you could never be sure of how much he understood. And she didn’t want Niki stirred up, either. She gestured with a toss of her head. Niki got up and followed her down to the other end of the long porch.
“What do you mean about the Atwoods?” Joleen kept her voice low and her tone even.
Niki shrugged. “I don’t know. They sure stare a lot.”
“Have they…bothered you?”
“I don’t know, Joly. Like I said, they just stare.”
“They haven’t spoken to you at all?”
“Well, yeah. Twice. They tried to talk to Sam, but you know how he is sometimes. He got shy, buried his head against my shoulder. Both times they gave up and walked away.”
So. They had tried to get to know their grandson a little and gotten nowhere. Joleen found herself feeling sorry for them again.
“No real problems, though?”
“Uh-uh. Just general creepiness.”
Joleen reached out, brushed a palm along her sister’s arm. “You’ve been great, taking care of Sam all day.”
“Yeah. Call me Wonder Girl.” Niki was good with Sam. She took her babysitting duties seriously. In fact, Niki was doing a lot better lately all the way around. She’d given them a real scare last year. But Joleen had begun to believe those problems were behind her now.
“Want a little break?”
“Sure—Can I get out of this dress?”
Joleen hid a smile. Rose-colored satin was hardly her little sister’s style. Niki liked black. Black hip-riding skinny jeans, equally skinny little black T-shirts, black Doc Martens. Sometimes, for variety, she’d wear navy blue or deep purple, but never anything bright. Certainly nothing rosy red.
“Go ahead and change,”