BRASS
I'm a detective.
Not the world's greatest, but I'll admit I've had my moments; enough to get me promoted to where I am which is pretty gratifying on the whole and certainly helps my paycheck. I've learned to pick up clues, evaluate evidence and make conjectures based on the information before me. Not all of those theories are right a hundred percent of the time, but enough of them are to keep me on my game.
To whit, the clues are this: car keys on the counter instead of hanging on the hook. Heather's home and in a hurry. A pair of high heels somewhat carelessly kicked under the kitchen table. She's feeling the edema a bit more. And lastly, an open cupboard revealing that one of the porcelain bowls is gone—she's eating sugar-free ice cream in some other part of the house. I wander around and find her in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor blissfully shoveling in spoonful after spoonful, and flexing her toes with each bite. She looks up at me from her magazine.
"Jim, darling—"
"Heather—" I bend down and am rewarded with a chocolaty kiss along my bottom lip. Tasty, and very cheering. I love to see Heather in such a good mood, and take a moment to study her.
Dark hair back in a long braid, black gauzy top with gleaming black gems sewn on it, matching skirt shoved up over her knees so she can sit comfortably, and black stockings on those lovely legs. And the crowning glory for me—the rounded tummy nestling between her hips, visible at last.
The tadpole is finally showing.
"Hungry?" I tease, knowing full well her appetite's been increasing this last week. She gives a chagrined glance at the bowl in her hands. It's such cute expression on her face. She lifts her chin, prepared to justify her little pig-out, but I put the kibosh on it by kissing her again. Yum—I need to flavor her with chocolate more often. Regretfully let stop sucking her lips and blink at her. She sighs.
I'm not going to fit in to my wedding dress at this rate," she chuffs. I rise and help her up, pulling her to her feet with one gentle tug into my arms and she gives me a good squeeze. Between us—I feel the firm swell of tadpole, and damn it—
How do I put this politely? I . . . react. Heather giggles and wriggles against me, making things a bit . . . harder.
"My, my—Captain Brass, I think you're a bit of a tocomaniac."
"I can't help it, it's a turn-on, all right?" I grumble, feeling both aroused and embarrassed. Lately the roundedness of Heather is just so . . . erotic. I look at her and the word that comes to mind is lush. Not an ounce wasted, not a swell out of place. She's like a dark orchid just opening into heavier bloom and I'm a damn bee in her thrall, buzzing around, captivated by her mysterious smile and sensuality.
"It seems to be an unexploited fetish. I wonder if it could bring in a few clients—"
"NO." I don't say it loudly, but it's pretty emphatic; Heather arches an eyebrow; she's still smiling and I understand she's only teasing. I try to look stern and menacing. "No flaunting the fecundity—only one guy is going to be worshiping your roundness, and that's me, period."
"Ohhh—" she drawls out, one hand rubbing my chin. Heather has a sparkle in her eye, and I feel her playfulness as she slowly nods. "I accept that—although I sense a reciprocal response—not really round, though—more of an angle . . . "
Her stroking hand is getting far too much reaction, and I shift away, my face red. Heather gracefully yields, fluttering her lashes at me in soft understanding. We don't play games, not unless it's a mutual deal. I clear my throat, then shoot her a look.
"So—fed your cravings?"
"Strangely enough, no. I have a sudden yen for warm neck of police captain—" she whispers to me and I like the sound of that, I surely do.
So now I'm out at eight fifteen in the morning trying to find Swedish caviar. Talk about living your clichés—my honey doesn't do anything halfway OR cheap, apparently, and her salt craving has sent me on this errand. Not Russian caviar, no, it's got to be Swedish, which means a trip to Steuck and Baileys to see if they have any Kalles in stock. I peer through the window of the shop, dismayed to see that they don't open for another two hours; I wonder if I could flash my badge and try to pass this off as official police business . . . . A little white-haired lady peers back out at me, puzzled by my look. I play up the forlorn expression, and she moves to unto the door, keeping the chain on.
"We don't open until ten, sir—" she tells me. I nod.
"Yeah, I noticed. See, here's the thing. My wife is pregnant, and she's got this craving for caviar . . ."
Immediately the little old lady's expression softens into a twinkly smile, and it's only after she's beckoned me in that I realize what I said.
My wife.
Wow. Not even a conscious effort there—just slipped out, sweetly and easily. My wife. As in, Heather, my wife.
I must be grinning a lot because the old lady is very definitely smiling back as she holds out a tube of Kalles to me.
"Oh my, well for an emergency situation like THIS, I don't think Gustave will mind me making an early sale. When is your wife due?"
"Three and a half months to go," I admit, fishing for my wallet and pulling a twenty out. The old lady beams, making change for me and bagging up the caviar.
"Wonderful! Do you know if it's a boy or girl? Thought of some good names?"
"Not yet . . . and as for names, don't get me started," I chuff, remembering the last go round with Heather on the matter. Love her dearly, would die for her, but on the issue of baby names, my bride-to-be has some interesting ideas about what to consider for the fruit of our loins. I guess the moniker Zoë should have tipped me off, huh?
I like traditional names. Hey—I'm a traditional guy, if you don't take into account the fact that I'm marrying a Dominatrix after impregnating her against astronomical odds. I like safe, sane names with easy nicknames to them: John. Matthew. Joseph. Jane. Mary. Charlotte. You know, the names that have withstood the test of time. Heather on the other hand has a bit of a blind, exotic streak to her choices. I tend to cringe at some of them—to wit:
Magnus. Trust me, any kid named Magnus Brass is going to end up a porn star or a gun-toting psycho.
Padraic. I appreciate the tip of the hat to my Irish heritage, but again, who's cruel enough to let a kindergartner walk out the door with a name like Padraic?
Kester . . . right. Kester is to Keester, and Keester Brass is to Keester Ass, and you get the picture, which is sordid and ugly.
But still, I'm willing to saddle the Tadpole with a not-so-hot middle name if Heather's willing to go with something for a first name that won't leave our offspring scarred for life.
"Oh I hear you," the clerk comments, bringing me back to the here and now. "My niece named her baby Galadriel after Lord of the Rings came out, and wooWEE the fuss over that—"
I can imagine, and nod sympathetically as she continues, "But at least it was a girl. I HONESTLY wouldn't be able to call a grandnephew Lothlorien and not snicker. I mean what would I shorten it to—Lothy?" she shakes her head and I nod once more.
Nice to know other people are fighting the good fight for ordinary, regular names.
On the way back my cell phone rings and checking it, I see it's Zoë.
"Hey Jim, looks like my flight's delayed a bit, so no rush to the airport just yet, okay?"
"Gotcha. What happened—weather?"
"No, some extra security thingy," she sighs. "So I'll give you guys a call once I'm in, okay?"
"Okay. You're sitting in a well-lit, crowded section of the airport, right?" I demand gently. Zoë's family now, so she's gonna have to deal with the Brass form of parenting, which covers Safety Procedures When Out Of My Line Of Sight. I hear her gentle snort, which sounds a bit like Heather's.
"Yes, I am. In fact, I've got a spot right next to the Airport Security office. AND I'm wearing the plastic safety whistle you and mom got me for Christmas."
I grin. It was a joke, really, but Zoë declared she always wanted one. I don't believe it, but it feels good to hear her claim of having it on hand. I sigh a little and I hear her giggle.
"Want me to blow it right now?"
"No, no that's fine—we'll save that little surprise for when you're home. Rehearsal dinner's at seven."
"Yep, I'll be there before then—" she assures me and hangs up. I stop and stare for a minute, shaking my head a little.
Bittersweet; this gift of a second daughter. This unexpected joy in being a part of Heather's life.
ZOE
I look around the baggage claim area impatiently, checking my watch again and hear my name being slightly mangled in a Texas accent.
"Hey! Hey Zoeeey!"
I know THAT voice. I forgot how cute Mr. Nick Stokes was, and even though I know he's pretty much out of my league, hey, a girl can daydream, right? He saunters over in jeans and black tee shirt with a blue open windbreaker and I just sort of goggle for a moment, especially when he gives me a quick, welcome to Vegas hug.
Oh yeah. Friendly without being too touchy-feely, the polite and happy greeting I know he probably has given dozens of women in his lifetime, darn it. I let him go and say goodbye to fantasies as I clear my throat.
"Hey Nick. I was worried you weren't going to make it."
"Never fear, Stokes gets the job done, you know? Besides, I brought my sidekick, Warrick Brown—" he gestures behind him and I see another man stride up . . . . Oooh my. Tall and handsome with such a killer grin that I'm seriously considering changing majors and getting into Law Enforcement. Who knew there were so many hotties in police work?
"This is Heather's daughter, Zoë Powell."
"Pleased to meet you," Warrick tells me, and I assure him the pleasure's all mine. Yeah, definitely the truth there! Oh I think I'm going to LIKE this planning session. Nick grabs my bags, and we're off, heading into traffic just like that.
From our phone calls, I knew Nick was a talker, but at the moment neither Warrick nor I can get a word in edgewise. I shoot an amused look at him over the back of the front passenger seat; he rolls his eyes and Nick rattles on while driving.
"So the Oddfellows Hall is just around the corner from the church, and my uncle Vern was able to talk to the head of the chapter here in Vegas so we've got it for the afternoon. I have a connection for the cake, don't you worry, and Catherine's calling in a favor on the decorations. Do you think blue will be okay? What color scheme is your mom going with on the wedding?"
"Uh, blue I guess—my dress is sort of a medium blue—"
"Great, great, I'm sure you're gonna look great in it, so I figured we'd do some lunch and go check out the hall, what do you say?"
"I finally get a chance to SAY something?" I tease, just to watch Nick go red. In the back seat I can hear Warrick laugh in that low sexy guy tone.
"Yo Nick, I see a second career looming for you man—wedding planner. You and Hodges in business together. All you need is a dressmaker."
The tops of Nick's ears are still rosy, but he's grinning, and I get the feeling these two do a lot of trashtalking back and forth.
"At least I'm doing the respectable party—Where are you planning on dragging Jim for his last night as a single man—the Tickled Pink, or the Taboo?" He shoots me a suddenly stricken look, but I'm laughing.
"God that's right—Jim's due a bachelor party too. I take it that's YOUR department, Warrick?"
"Yeah." He admits quietly. "And it's going to be classy, all right? I don't think Brass would really be into having a cake with a stripper in it these days."
We pull into a parking lot, and I glance up, biting back a giggle as I see where Nick's brought us to lunch. I can hear Warrick groan a little, clearly dismayed.
"You're kidding, man."
"No way—they have GREAT food." Nick assures us, climbing out and actually coming around to open my door. I think I might die of shock from that alone. He waves an arm at the establishment in front of us and I read the red and gold sign.
PIZZA AND PIPES.
Under that it goes on to add: The Best Sicilian Pizza in Las Vegas, served up with the Best in contemporary and oldies music as performed by Mr. Mick Zigler, Hammond Organ Master. Come in! Enjoy a slice and a tune!
"Trust Nick to find the tackiest food joints in this town—"Warrick stage-whispers to me as he follows me inside.
I love it, of course.
The walls are flocked red and gold wallpaper, and the mellow tones of Bali Hai are echoing in the big dining hall in front of us. At one end of the semi-crowded room is a huge organ, the kind that looks as if it should be in the nave of a cathedral somewhere. Big gold pipes rising up from it along the wall, and musical notes are painted on them. I can see the skinny back of the organist—I assume it's Mr. Zigler, and his two-foot braided ponytail is pretty impressive, even from here. Nick nudges me towards the order counter, and I tear my eyes from the décor to look at the menu board.
Oh boy! Man, they have every combo I've ever heard of and a whole bunch I've never considered. Nick's grinning again. Warrick is looking reluctantly impressed.
"Pesto, olive and mozzarella actually looks good—" he admits. I'm busy eyeing debating between the charred steak and artichoke or mushroom, bacon and four cheese pizza. Nick laughs.
"I'm going teriyaki and pineapple myself. They're good at individual pies here."
We order, and take a booth off in one corner, diagonal from the organ. Mr. Mick is now playing a bouncy version of Hello Dolly that's impossible not to hum along to. Even Warrick is doing it. Nick scoots in next to me as the waitress ambles over. She's a rounded bubbly Latino girl with heavy eye makeup and a smile like a movie starlet.
"Welcome to Pizza and Pipes! My name is Pilar. What would you like to drink today?"
I get diet Coke, Warrick opts for a bottle of water and Nick gets a glass of milk.
Of course.
Pilar giggles at that but dutifully writes it down, then takes our pizza orders. As she scribbles the last of it, she looks up one more time and the smile is bigger than ever.
"And now, your song requests?"
"What?" Warrick beats me to the question. Pilar giggles.
"Each of you gets a request, of course. Mr. Mick is in sort of a Beatles mood today, so I'd recommend Penny Lane or All you Need is Love if you want a REAL treat, but it's up to you."
"Um---Yellow Submarine?" Nick asks. Pilar beams and writes it down. Warrick gives an amused shrug.
"Penny Lane's fine. I can live with that."
"Great—and YOU, Miss."
"Come Together?" I timidly ask. Pilar openly giggles and her pencil flies.
"Perfect. That will REALLY make Mr. Mick's afternoon. Thank you—" and off she bounces towards the kitchen. I look at Nick, and find Warrick's doing the same thing. Mr. Stokes looks serious for a moment.
"Come on, Nicky, spill—" Warrick rumbles, and we get that great Stokes smile again. He points with his chin at the organ.
"Wellll--The first time I came here I thought I recognized Mr. Mick. I went home and called my mom, because she plays for the First Methodist back home, and sure enough SHE knew him. Had both his albums—and that's where I remembered him from. Turns out Michael Zigler was this childhood prodigy from the sixties. A real genius with music, but he had this nervous breakdown and disappeared for like, twenty years. Checked him through the databases and it seems he got into drugs. Heroin."
Warrick looks skeptical.
"The DATABASES? Which ones, Nick? The burnt-out musician one, or the people-my-mom-had-a-crush on one?" he scoffs. Nick's grin gets sunnier.
"It's okay Warrick, I erased your name out of both of those for you."
I glance at the skinny back of the man at the organ and sigh a little. The music shifts to Yellow Submarine, the rich notes rolling out beautifully under those long fingers. Warrick gives a little whistle.
"Still on drugs? Doesn't seem to affect his playing."
"Nope. Apparently he had a vision from God. Claims an angel told him to open a pizza parlor and play for the masses. So he cleaned up cold turkey and talked a third rate run down parlor into sharing his vision."
Warrick and I stare at Nick, who shrugs.
"You know, he sounds like a great case study for me—" I muse. Warrick chuckles and right then Pilar's back, balancing the pizzas in her arms.
We eat. It's good. Really good. And by the time we're done, everything's pretty much set, and all that's left is to check out the hall. I'm tickled at Nick's organizational skills and I know both mom and Jim are going to be very touched at this unexpected sweetness.
HEATHER
My dress is beautiful. A bit on the large side now that the little one within is rounding me out, but I'm still delighted with the flowing lines of the creation Janos has made for me. Ivory linen with trim of antiqued lace. I'm glad it has a curved neckline and a tie sash for the back, and I'm very grateful it's long enough that I can get away with wearing flats under it. Mama is grumbling about how low cut the back of it is, but all in all she's as pleased as I am.
Jim is locked out of the bedroom while I model it for my mother, who is fussing with the wreath I have chosen for my hair. Silk roses in ivory, with strands of pearls woven through them, and a few ribbons draping down the back.
"Very nice, my Hajana. Even for a pregnant one, you are a beautiful bride." She finally assures me. I hear wistfulness in her voice and know she's thinking about Zoë, and whether she'll be around for her granddaughter's wedding someday. I smooth the fabric down on the hips down and sigh.
"I'm sorry about holding off on the reception, Mama, but next month—"
"It's all right, it's all right my dove—I know how these things go."
I kiss her, realizing how frail she's getting. Outside the door I hear Jim clearing his throat.
"Zoë's here and we have to get going soon Hon—" he calls. Mama goes to the door and unlocks it, then peers out, blocking me from view.
"Send the little one in, and go away, Keptin Brass. No bad luck is going to happen because you saw the bride, yes?"
"Gee I hate to break it to you, Lolu, but I've already SEEN the bride," Jim replies and I blush. Damn the man for making his little comment send tendrils of desire and annoyance through my body. I hear my mother snort.
"You brag like a Hungarian."
"Learning from the best." I hear him say, and then a rush of feet and Zoë's pushing her way into the room giggling and hugging and fleetingly I catch a glimpse of Jim in the hallway. His eyes light up and for one second my heart swells within me. Then he gently turns and moves out of sight.
Zoë gasps, and circles me, all excited smiles and quick nervous gestures. She reaches a hand timidly to my tummy, but I grab it and press her palm firmly against the Tadpole, who takes that moment to wriggle a little.
Zoë chokes.
I do too.
My mother comes up behind her and pats her shoulders and for a long moment the generations are united.
JIM
Reverend Book is a patient man, and I'd like to think I am too, but both of us are fidgeting now as we wait for the organist to finish her warm ups and get to the processional. Warrick looks relaxed, slouching a bit next to me. Well, a lot, actually. I shoot him a glance.
"Right here—" he lifts a long hand, and Heather's ring twinkles on his pinkie, barely to the second joint. Gold, rounded band and engraved on the inside with the three little words I remember telling her when I KNEW.
Heather doesn't know I got the ring engraved.
Gradually we get the patient notes of Pachbel's canon, and I watch as Heather glides up the nave towards us. She's supposed to be serious, or teary-eyed, but from the look on her face she's fighting giggles, probably because she knows I'm going to comment on her caviar breath. Ahead of her, Pauline is moving, looking more like an exotic bodyguard than a matron of honor, and next to me Warrick tenses.
"Why does she always give me the feeling she should be wearing dark glasses and have a wire in her ear?" he asks, and I fight my grin, nodding a little. Pauline has that panther grace that intimidates lesser men and intrigues greater ones; Warrick still hasn't gotten over how . . . firm . . . her handshake is.
"Homeland security could take a few pointers from the Dominion," I reply gravely, making him chuckle a little. Reverend Book gives us a long-suffering look. I get serious right away, focusing on my sweetheart as we all shift into position. Heather's in a pair of blue leggings with a big gauzy overshirt embroidered at the collar and cuffs—I suspect it's Lolu's handiwork. We face the reverend and he gives a little sigh.
"Alright, after Miss Jessie has played the processional, I'll state the call to worship and the statement of Christian marriage and the prayer of invocation. That's when you two need to declare your intentions. Heather, you're giving yourself?"
"Absolutely." She demurs, and even though it's a perfectly innocent response I can't help but feel the sort of thrill I'm not even supposed to THINK about in a church. Warrick's keeping a straight face by force of will, because Pauline is gazing at him with a gimlet eye.
We start the ceremony with a few adjustments here and there. I'm feeling such a weird blend of things, all of them good. Heather is making faces; I shoot her a sidelong glance and see her mouth the word 'squirming'
Tadpole is on the move. That gets ME almost smirking, and by then Reverend Book is eyeing the pair of us with that special tolerance that only men of God have.
"Is there a problem here?" he rolls out, waiting patiently. Heather presses a hand to her abdomen. Reverend Book grins a little.
"Ah—I take it the guest of honor is as impatient as any of us. Well let's make it through at least ONE walkthrough and that should be enough." He intones, and somehow we do. Pauline and Warrick present the rings at the right moment and I watch Heather's eyes glow as I slip it on her finger. Mine's not bad either, and true confession time: It feels good. Feels right, if you know what I mean.
I manage to get hers off of her again before she can notice the engraving.
Anyway, we get the pacing down, and after about forty minutes it's time to stop and meet over at El Rosales. Heather does a quick glucose check in the ladies' room while Warrick, the Reverend, Zoë, Lolu and I wait. When we get to the restaurant, it's pretty crowded, but Javier already has a table set up in the back, and it's even got the flowers I called Husky about, the pink and yellow roses.
Heather kisses me, making her mother snort and Zoë chuckle, but it doesn't matter. We eye the two of them loftily and I help her into her seat, grinning a bit; for all the tough and practical sides of my sweetheart, there is a core of pure cotton candy, and I sense that Heather is as much in love with my sentimentality as I am about showing it to her now. I'm not afraid to share some of those things anymore, which is precisely why there's an extra magic to what we have, she and I.
"So, this I gotta know, Jim—how did you two start dating?" Warrick asks after we've ordered and settled in. Zoë's leaning closer even though I'm pretty sure she knows the story, and even Pauline looks faintly curious. I clear my throat and glance at Heather, who just lets that beautiful mouth of hers curve up in a graceful smile. She nods at me and I clear my throat.
"Last year, you remember that run of rain we had? Well right in the middle of one of those storms, I saw this Miata on the side of the road . . . "
And we're off and running, Heather and I, interrupting each other, adding details. It's the first time I've told anybody how falling in love with Heather Marazek happened, and from the way it makes me feel—
It won't be the last.
