Darion stood up and tossed me a towel. I wiped my hands hastily and dug through the bowl by the door for my set of keys.
We raced down the hall, not bothering with the elevator. We took the stairs two and three at a time to get to the garage.
“Was that the spare car keys you grabbed?” he asked as we darted between cars, looking for his black Mercedes.
“Of course! No way was I going to wait on the valet!” Dang fancy condo and its snaillike doormen.
We spotted the car and dashed for it. Only when Darion was behind the wheel and heading out the exit did he ask, “Is the baby okay?”
“Corabelle didn’t say. But she isn’t due for over a month.”
“That’s premature, but not enough to cause serious issues, as long as the baby is healthy,” Darion said. “Why the wedding?”
“Beats me. They only decided to get married a couple months ago.”
We sped down a back street. The night was quiet in our residential neighborhood, but traffic picked up as soon as we headed into the Saturday evening nightlife.
Another text came through from Corabelle. I read it and told Darion, “They already passed through the light at Genesee. We should see them any minute.”
“They’re going to St. Anthony’s, then?” Darion asked. “We could meet them there.”
“She wants me to be a witness and they’ll be married before we get there,” I said. I peered out the window as we approached the intersection.
“Are they in lights and siren?” Darion asked.
“I see lights!” I said, pointing.
“Got it,” Darion said. He careened across two lanes to swing into the small parking lot of a gas station.
We leaped from the car and took off down the middle of the street toward the whirl of lights. The vehicle didn’t seem to be slowing down.
“You sure this is the right ambulance?” Darion yelled as we approached.
“We’re going to look pretty crazy if it isn’t!” I said.
The ambulance passed us, lights flashing, but no sirens. We stopped in the middle of the street, watching it go by. “They’re not supposed to stop,” Darion said. “They could get in a lot of trouble if they do.”
But even as he said it, the brake lights lit up. When it came to a stop, the back door popped open and none other than Dylan Wolf appeared. “Come on in, the party’s just getting started!”
I rushed up to the bumper and took Dylan’s hand to get a leg up. I immediately bumped against the back of the stretcher where Jenny was strapped in. She was panting, her hair leaving pink chalk on the white pillow.
“We’re having a contraction break in the ceremony,” Dylan said.
“You can’t let anyone else in here!” a woman in an EMT uniform protested from her tight space in the corner.
A cameraman was filming it all, a light shining over his lens. Chance held on to Jenny’s hand, telling her to breathe.
Corabelle kneeled on the floor close to Chance.
I squished myself along the side with the evil EMT, past the cameraman.
“This is crazy,” I said to Jenny.
She flashed a pained smile.
“It’ll pass in a second,” Corabelle said. “We’re five minutes apart now.”
“Still plenty of time,” Darion said from the door as he yanked it shut. “Would you like me to check you?”
“Who are you?” the EMT demanded.
He saluted her. “Dr. Darion Marks. St. Anthony’s.”
The EMT mumbled something under her breath.
“It will be fine,” Darion said.
Jenny’s breath began to slow. “Let’s not give the cameraman a show,” she said. “We can start again.”
“What did we miss?” I asked.
“Dylan’s been rambling about everlasting love,” Chance said.
“This is my finest work,” Dylan said, flashing his megawatt smile. He was dressed in black leather pants and a gray silk vest. His hair was perfection, falling over one eye in just the right way. He looked like a rock star, no doubt about it.
“Let’s get on with it,” Jenny said. “We’re probably getting close to the hospital.” The ambulance lurched forward, and all the occupants tried to grab something steady to keep their places.
“Absolutely,” Dylan said. “Do you, Jenny, take Chance to be your lawfully wedded husband, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, from this day forward, till death do you part?”
Jenny looked up at Chance. His face was only inches from hers. “I do,” she said.
“And do you, Chance,” Dylan went on, “take this lovely lady Jenny, who is laboring so hard for your child, even while attending your concert, as your lawfully wedded wife, for better or worse, and you’ll probably make it worse, in sickness and in health, and be ready for a lot of sickness with a kid around, for richer or poorer — speaking of rich, is your recording done yet?”
“Dylan!” several people said at the same time.
“Right, right, for richer or poorer, from this day forward, till death do you part?”