Buried In Buttercream

bummed out ’cause he didn’t get to see Mickey Mouse today.”
    “Mickey ... what?”
    “We’d promised the kids we’d take them to Disneyland today, once your wedding was over and done with. That’s what he’s bawlin’ about.”
    As though to prove his mother’s point, Peter toddled over to Savannah and gave her shin a hearty kick with his miniature sneaker. Not being that surefooted yet, he wobbled, then fell over, and started to cry again when he hit the carpet.
    Savannah reached down and picked him up. When he tried to kick at her again, babbling something like, “Mick ... ouse ... wanna go,” she gave him a kiss on the forehead.
    “I’m sorry, puddin’ cat, but you’ll still get to see Mickey Mouse. Aunt Savannah promises. She also promises that if you kick her again, she’ll swat your bee-hind for you. You don’t get to kick people every time you want to.
    “Obviously,” she muttered under her breath as she set him on the floor, “or your momma’d have my footprint on her backside right now.”
    Savannah left the still-squalling, mouse-deprived youngster and walked into the kitchen, where she found her brother Waycross sitting at her table. He was staring, goo-goo eyed, at the pretty blonde across the table from him.
    “Tammy!” she said as she crossed the room to greet her friend. “I’m so glad to see you, sugar.”
    The young woman rose from the table and met her halfway. They hugged each other tightly for a long time. When they finally broke the embrace, Tammy kissed Savannah’s cheek.
    “I’m glad to see you, too, Savannah,” she told her with downcast eyes and a look of sadness tinged with guilt on her lovely face.
    Savannah’s heart ached to see this same expression, day after day, week after week ... for three months now. When was it going to end? When would they be like they were before? Ever?
    Surely their friendship wouldn’t turn out to be something else that bastard had taken from her ... along with peaceful, nightmare-free nights.
    “Can I get you something?” Tammy asked, far too eager to please. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich or get you a drink or—”
    “No, honey, I just came in here to get a broom. We had a little accident in the living room. My African violet.”
    “Oh, no.”
    “Yep, he’s toes up, I’m afraid. In my comfy chair.”
    Tammy ran to the pantry and snagged the whisk broom and dustpan before Savannah. “Let me do it. I’ve got it covered. You just sit down and rest.”
    With that, she hurried from the room.
    Savannah sighed as she walked to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of lemonade.
    It seemed that since the shooting, everybody scurried around, doing things to please or help her. People were always rushing here and there to do things they thought she could no longer do for herself. And while it was endearing that they cared so much for her, it made her most uncomfortable.
    She firmly believed that scrambling to do everything as quickly as possible was a waste of energy most of the time. And it was a downright sin when it was done to pacify impatient, controlling people.
    She didn’t want anyone to ever lump her into the category of someone who needed others to scurry around on their behalf. And certainly not someone as precious to her as her longtime friend and assistant, Tammy Hart.
    Taking her lemonade to the table, she sat across from Waycross. He had a bowl of pretzels in front of him and was sipping from an ice-frosted bottle of beer.
    “Don’t let Granny catch you with that,” she said. “You’ll wind up wearing it instead of drinking it.”
    He chuckled. “Believe you me, I checked to make sure she was taking her nap before I popped the top. I wouldn’t put it past her to take a switch to me.”
    “Demon rum.”
    “The only thing worse than rolling dice, playing cards—”
    “Or chewin’ tobaccy.”
    “Yep. Gran’s death in drinking, gambling, and tobacco products. And fornication. Don’t forget that one.”
    “Like I could forget it? She’s been putting the evil eye on me every time I step out the door to go see Dirk now. She’s just sure that he and I are already dancing the Grizzly Bear Hump.”
    Waycross’s pale blue eyes probed hers with Reid intensity. “Well,” he said, “are you?”
    “How very ungentlemanly of you to ask.”
    “Sorry.”
    “No.”
    “No, what?”
    “Not that it’s any of your business. But, no, we aren’t. We haven’t. Figured if we’ve waited this