Hope surged within her as she made for it with a fresh burst of energy, catapulted through it and into the arched breezeway and the alley beyond.
There she halted, quivering with indecision. Which way? Which way? Any minute now, they’d be after her. Any minute!
Once again it was instinct that decided for her, pointing her toward the right, the shortest distance to the corner, to the street, to people and cars. To witnesses. But as she ran down the alley behind the rectory building, she heard the sound she’d dreaded: running footsteps. And there were no shouts, no alarms, just those rhythmic swishing sounds, like sandpaper on stone, all the more sinister for their stealth.
It was still much too far. She’d never make it to the street before they caught her. Not on this cobbled pavement. Never in a million years…
Just before the rectory wall ended, it jogged inward into a small alcove, with stone steps leading down to a basement entrance. Her heart gave a leap. Would the door be unlocked? What if it wasn’t? She’d be trapped down there, cornered. No, no-she couldn’t risk it.
No, but in the alcove there was also a trash bin!
Eve didn’t have to think twice. The notion hadn’t even taken shape in her mind before she had the heavy metal lid lifted up and was hauling herself over the side of the bin, champagne bottle, satin skirts and all. But-oh God-now she was caught on something! Her veil had caught on the edge of the Dumpster, and while she was trying to pull it loose, down came the lid on her head, with enough force to make her see stars.
As she huddled in the darkness, dizzy and a little nauseated from the conk on the head, she could hear her pursuers’ footsteps out there in the alley, shuffling around in indecision. And while it was true that neither Sergei nor Rick had ever struck her as being overly endowed in the brains department, surely in another second it was going to occur to one of them that they should split up, one go one way, one go the other. Seconds-that was all she had before someone came running by her hiding place.
What an idiot she’d been! The bin was the first place they’d look! And here she was, like a rat in a trap. The Dumpster hadn’t much trash in it; and oh, what she’d have given for a couple of cubic yards of nice, smelly garbage to burrow under!
Half-smothered by her own air-starved lungs, all she could do was listen…praying…rubbing the knot on her head… while a few yards away in the alley, footsteps scraped on cobblestones, coming closer…running hard. Any second now. Any second…
They were running…running…right on by!
Was it possible? Was the notion of a bride hiding in a Dumpster simply too ludicrous to occur to those two idiots?
She felt an impulse to laugh, but discovered instead that she was crying. And trembling. Yes, she was, shaking like a leaf and making little whimpering, gasping sounds, just one degree from a humiliating-not to mention dangerous-case of hysterics. Because she wasn’t safe yet. Sonny’s goons would be back. Of course they would. How could they let her go? They’d have to keep looking until they found her. Until…
The thought made her feel chilled and sick. But she couldn’t lose control now-had to keep her wits, keep calm. Keep calm, Evie…don’t lose it now…
It was then that it occurred to her that at least part of the cold in the middle of her chest wasn’t fear after all, but a bottle of unbelievably expensive vintage French champagne.
For a moment she felt as if the bubbles from the champagne were in her nose, tickling and prickling behind her eyes. She took several quick, shallow breaths, then lifted the open bottle to her lips and drank. She choked a little, spilled a little, coughed and drank some more. The wine prickled her throat and made her eyes water, but the panic seemed less imminent. She drank again, and felt a subtle warmth spread through her chest.
She leaned against a plastic bag filled with foam plastic cups-the trash from a choir practice coffee break, perhaps? -hugging the bottle of champagne against the pearl-encrusted bodice of her wedding dress while shudders coursed through her body. When she felt the urge to cry creeping back she drank champagne until it went away again.
She tried not to think, but her mind insisted on bringing up the question: Evie, what are you going to do now?
Mirabella was putting the finishing touches on her makeup when Summer opened the parlor door. “Ah, here you guys are.” She came on into the room, closed the door behind her, then did a small double take and said, “Where’s Evie?”
Choosing to ignore that for the moment, Mirabella countered instead with, “Who’s minding the kids?”
“Riley volunteered to keep an eye on them. Thought I’d see if you needed any help. Guess not-you look fantastic.”
“Yeah, right.” Mirabella ground her teeth together as she glared at her reflection in the mirror. “I hate…this…dress.”
“Really? Gosh,” said Summer, “I didn’t think they were so bad. I actually kinda like it.”
“Why shouldn’t you? It makes you look like a Greek goddess. I look like a mailbox.”
“Oh, Bella, you do not. You look like a gorgeous pregnant woman. With stunning red hair. Who’s gonna notice anything else?” Summer leaned over Mirabella’s shoulder to examine her own face for nonexistent flaws. “Mom and Pop here yet?”
Mirabella shook her head and moved aside to give her sister the mirror. “Troy and Charly are bringing them. Do you think it’s too early to get the flowers?”
“Probably,” Summer murmured absently as she tweaked futilely at strands of sun-streaked blond hair that had already come loose from her French twist hairdo. “Where on earth is Evie? She go to the bathroom or something?”
“Not… exactly.”
That was all it took; Summer knew their older sibling’s penchant for mischief as well as she knew the not-too-subtle nuances of Mirabella’s voice. She straightened up like a shot. “Oh no-don’t tell me. Oh God, what’s Evie up to now?”
Mirabella said darkly, “You do not want to know.”
“Bella-”
Mirabella sighed. “All I can tell you is, she left here carrying an open bottle of champagne and two glasses.”
Eve held the champagne bottle up in front of her face and squinted at it with one eye closed, trying without much success, in the meager light seeping under the lid of the trash bin, to gauge how much was left. And a damn fine wine it was, too, she thought regretfully. Meant for better things. But at least she hadn’t wasted any of it on that sonofabitch Sonny Cisneros.
To her dismay, the thought was punctuated by a loud hiccup.
Hiccups! That was all she needed. Sonny’s thugs were due back any minute. With that racket, even those two dimwits could hardly fail to find her. She sucked in a breath as deeply as the gown’s tight, corsetlike bodice would allow, held it until she saw spots before her eyes, then released it in a rush.
Satisfied that the dangerous impulse had been vanquished, at least for the moment, she slid the wine bottle down along one hip and deliberately shifted her skirts to cover it. No more wine for you, Evie, she said to herself. Not until you’ve thought this mess through.
She had to think. Up until now she’d been operating on instinct, but now that the adrenaline was ebbing, it was occurring to her that, since her instincts apparently hadn’t been all that reliable lately, especially where men were concerned, maybe she should try using reason and intelligence.
Okay. So she’d overheard some shocking, extraordinary things. What she had to do now was try and make sense of them.
First, the fact that seemed as incontrovertible as it was unbelievable: Sonny’s goons-her Sonny!-were the very ones responsible for threatening Summer and her children and setting fire to their mobile home last June, apparently in an effort to flush Summer’s ex-husband, Hal Robey, out of hiding. Why? Because Hal had stolen some files from Sonny, files containing something so incriminating they could send Sonny to jail.