Sarah had flatly refused to wear lavender. If she had to spend an afternoon looking like a butch Little Bo-Peep, so be it. But filial devotion only went so far. So Jennifer agreed, reluctantly, that Sarah could wear pink, her sister’s second favorite color. All Sarah could say was, at least it wasn’t lavender.
Now, if she could just talk Jen out of the hat.
“Sarah Louise?”
Oh, joy. That would be Melanie, Jennifer’s best friend. Blond curls, violet eyes, pink cheeks. Shirley Temple with boobs. On her, lavender made sense.
Sarah tried to smile. “Yes?”
“Jennifer says Lance’s brother’s back. And that he’s real cute.”
Just the person she wanted to talk about. She shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess. If you like that type.”
Melanie giggled, curls and bosoms bouncing in sync. The girl was nothing if not talented. “He’s gorgeous, he’s got a good business going, and he’s male. With a capital M, if even half of what I hear is true. What’s not to like?”
“Don’t get your drawers in a twist, Melanie. He’s only here for a week.”
“A week, huh?” Two of the cutest dimples you ever did see popped out as Melanie flashed a smile. “Honey, that’s more than enough time.” The lips pouted. “Unless…you have some sort of claim on him? I mean, you’re not going with him to the Jenkinses’ pot luck tomorrow or anything, are you?”
Girls like this should come with warning labels. Sarah stretched her lips into what she hoped looked like a smile but which probably more nearly resembled an iguana’s smirk. “Me? Heavens, no.” She waved at the young woman with the back of her hand. “Have at him, honey. With my blessings.”
The girls all tittered—loudly—and Sarah cringed. She loved her sister dearly, but one of her was quite enough, thank you. Five Jennifers was cause for Alka-Seltzer.
She’d have to make do with coffee. That, at least, was something to be grateful for. Black, hot, there. All the criteria neatly met in one steaming cup. Sarah sipped, sighed, and tried to lean back in the chair without doing herself major damage. Miss Ellis, her mouth full of pins, was holding forth about how she had gone to this huge wedding in Atlanta and the bridal gown came from this really fancy salon named Fairchild’s—and would you lift your arm, darlin’?—and the owner now manufactured her own line of bridal gowns but had still custom designed this absolutely stunning dress for the bride and do you know Thelma Rose Entwhistle told her it cost nearly ten thousand dollars?
They all gasped, right on cue, then proceeded to assure the dressmaker that her dresses were every bit as pretty, they were sure, and how clever of her to be able to make them for such reasonable prices.
Sarah rested her head on the back of the chair and shut her eyes. This was proving to be the longest morning in the history of mankind. She hadn’t slept at all, she had to go into the clinic in the afternoon, her head hurt and the dress itched. And through it all needled the intense desire to throttle the living daylights out of Dean Parrish.
Somewhere around 3:00 a.m., after she’d gone over his “confession” for at least the hundredth time, she’d finally heard what he was saying.
So what was with this inferiority business, anyway? How could he have possibly thought he would have ever gotten in her way, as if loving him would have ever interfered with her career goal? And how the hell did he figure he was worthless just because he hadn’t finished high school? Good Lord—it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been aware of his problem, considering how many tests she’d tried to help him pass. But if there was one thing Dean Parrish wasn’t, it was stupid.
The more she thought about it, the madder she got, because the more she thought about it, the more it sure sounded as if he was saying she hadn’t been smart enough to know he wasn’t good enough for her, so he played the big macho man and made the decision for her.
The toad.
Someone told an off-color joke, sending Melanie into paroxysms of shrill laughter. Itchy and bitchy, Sarah decided Melanie Kincaid was just about what Dean deserved. She couldn’t wait to see him squirm out of those L’Oréal-polished claws. Which he would, right? I mean, Melanie wasn’t even his type…right?
She flicked a glance at Bubbles and started to chew on a hangnail.
Hey—whatever happened, there wasn’t anything she could say, was there? She was the one who’d made it clear they had nothing to say to each other, right?
Right?
She switched fingers and started in on another hangnail.
She wished she could figure out what was really going on in Dean’s head. His eyes—remorseful, haunted—slipped into her thought just as the anger slipped out of it. Again.
Oh, no, you don’t, she thought, snatching it back, cramming it down by her heart.
They’re just eyes, girl. And he’s just a man. Remember that.
Like she could forget.
Her nipples heaved against her bra the same time this little tingling sensation jolted through a part of her body she basically had no use for. She squirmed.
And swore.
Six sets of eyes turned to her, six mouths open in midsentence. She smiled, pointed to her ribs, prayed her skin was a normal color. “Pin.”
The eyes turned away and the mouths resumed their conversations.
Remember what happened the last time you let those little tingling sensations have their way?
She wiggled in the chair again as if she could get away from her treacherous body, winced, then sank her chin into her hand and stared out the window. Oh, crud…she knew him too well, knew he wasn’t going to give up on this fence-mending business, just because she’d told him, more or less, to go to hell. Which meant he was only going to keep getting in her way. Which meant…
Melanie giggled again, and Sarah dredged up a little smile.
Throwing him off the scent, she believed this was called.
There were more memories than cobwebs in the old farmhouse, invading Dean’s psyche as insistently as the musty, closed-up smell invaded his nostrils.
As farmhouses go, it was fairly modest—large kitchen, dining room, living room downstairs; three bedrooms and a bath upstairs. But it had been pretty, once. Before his father died. Granted, his mother would never have won an award for her housekeeping, caring much more about her crafts than whether or not anyone could eat off her kitchen floor, which, as she pointed out, was rather silly, if you thought about it. Otherwise, why have dishes?
But the house had always been in good shape, even if he and Lance and his father had had to constantly shift piles of books and magazines and assorted crafts supplies from chair to table to floor, even if the house always smelled of hot glue and varnish and dried flowers. His father had kept it in excellent repair and both inside and out got fresh coats of paint religiously every three years.
However, Dean’s father had died when Dean was fourteen, his mother falling ill almost immediately afterward. It had been impossible for Dean to take care of her, his brother, and the house all at the same time. And houses are like spoiled women: they need constant cosseting in order to look their best. By the time Marion Parrish died, the house was already showing signs of neglect; now, years later, it made a perfect setting for a Stephen King movie.
As if protesting being disturbed after all this time, the tilted floors screaked mournfully as Dean walked through the virtually empty house. Most of the furniture had either been sold or given away after his mother’s death, Ethel insisting there was no reason to keep it. But, here and there, a few pieces remained, having had no takers for whatever reason. Not because of their worthlessness, however, since his father’s skill had long been admired.
The ample living room with its oak-manteled fireplace was bare except for a corner hutch his father had made, a simple pine piece, not too big. His mother had displayed some of her handmade dolls on the top shelf, kept sewing supplies behind the doors on the bottom.
Then there was that buffet in the dining room that had belonged, he beli
eved, to his mother’s grandmother. Ash, he discovered as he wiped away a thick layer of dust from a small section of the massive piece. The stain had darkened over the years to an oppressive umber color which pretty much matched his mood. He made a mental note to strip and restain it. Maybe Jennifer and Lance might like it. Or he could take it back to Atlanta, sell it there.
He pushed open the obligatory swinging door to the kitchen, which was retro before retro was “in,” with its black-and-white linoleum tile and glass-paned cabinets. Great gaping holes coated with stringy, fuzzy webs indicated where the stove and refrigerator had been; the walls had aged to a putrid mustard color. Sarah had always hated that color, even when it was new—
He sucked in his breath. Why on earth should he care what Sarah thought? He was selling the house, he was going back to Atlanta, that part of his life was over.
Period.
Wiping thoughts of Sarah out of his mind as easily as he wiped dust off his hands, he left the kitchen and went upstairs, made an expeditious tour of the equally barren rooms on the top story, then came back down, just in time to hear the muffled clatter of a bicycle being hastily abandoned out by the front porch. He peered out the front window, saw the child’s bike. Frowning, he opened the front door, started, then felt his lips curve into a smile of genuine pleasure.
“Katey? What are you doing here, honey?”
She offered him a shrug and a gap-toothed grin in that order, then climbed up the front steps onto the porch, long braids bouncing against the front of her canary-yellow T-shirt as she ascended. “Thought I saw your truck go by a little while ago and wondered if this was where you were going.” She craned her neck, looking past him into the house. “I’ve never seen inside.”
Taking his cue, Dean stepped aside and let Katey in, reminding himself not to hold the little girl’s resemblance to her oldest sister against her. “You’ve been here before?”
Katey meandered over to the hutch and tugged at a bottom door until it popped open with a loud scraping sound, the force bouncing her into the wall. “Lots,” she said, absently rubbing the seat of her matching yellow shorts with one hand as she straightened up. She yanked open the other door and looked inside, but since it was empty she withdrew her head, then shut both doors at once.
Dean stood with his hands on his hips as he watched the child explore the house with the ingenuousness of a kitten. “How come?”
Another shrug, then: “I don’t know. I was out riding my bike one day and just sort of found it, I guess. It’s pretty and quiet and cool under those pine trees out back. You know there’re ducks in the pond?”
“Still?” He hadn’t been out to the pine grove yet. Couldn’t bear it, he didn’t think.
“Oh, yeah. Like a zillion of ’em. Anyway—” Katey crossed the hall into the dining room, immediately investigating the buffet with the same detached thoroughness as she had the hutch “—I was telling everyone about it at dinner one night and Lance said it sounded like the house the two of you lived in with your parents and would I take him to see it and I said, sure. So I did, and it is. Was, I mean. Your house.” She skimmed one finger over the top of the buffet. “It’s neat. You gonna live here again?”
“Actually, I’m thinking about selling it.”
Katey twitched her head up to him, her brows arched over deep amber eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“I live in Atlanta, Katey. I sure don’t need a house here.”
The little girl regarded him as if trying to read his mind, swishing the end of one braid against the palm of her hand, then headed for the stairs. “You goin’ to that big potluck at the Jenkinses’ tomorrow?” She threw the question over her shoulder as she walked up, deliberately grinding her sneakers against the bare treads.
Dean was beginning to acclimate to the constant subject-switching. As he followed Katey, he asked, “Is that the one your sisters were talking about last night? A wedding anniversary or something?”
“Uh-huh.” Her high, soft voice echoed in the stairwell. “Their fiftieth. Since they don’t have kids, everybody thought’d be neat if the neighbors gave ’em a party instead.” She peered into each bedroom, which were all empty except for Dean’s parents’ room, which had an old thirties wardrobe on one wall. Naturally, Katey headed for it like a bee to a flower and yanked open one mirrored door.
“It’s a surprise party,” she said, bending her head back to see if anything lurked on the top shelf. “Mama’s…taking them—” she backed up farther and stood on tiptoe “—to the movies in Opelika in the afternoon while everyone gets the party ready.” Then she pulled open one of the cedar-lined drawers. And uttered a little cry of discovery. “Ooh…how pretty!”
Amazed the child had actually unearthed something, he crossed to her. “What is it?”
“A quilt or somethin’.”
It was a quilt. Dean swallowed hard. The quilt that had been on his parents’ bed. With a great deal of sideline encouragement from his new friend, he lifted it out of the drawer that had kept it safe and intact for so long and reverently unfolded it. His great-grandmother had made it, his mother had said. As a child, he’d always been fascinated by the whirling colors that somehow all fitted together into the beautiful pattern. It had a name, the pattern did, but he couldn’t remember it. What he did remember was creeping into his parents’ room of a Sunday morning and seeing them cuddled underneath the kaleidoscope of colors, his father’s face usually buried in his mother’s abundant dark hair, holding her close against his chest as they slept. To Dean, this was far more than a pretty covering for a bed. The quilt meant love. Security.
Happiness. As much as anyone’s allowed in this lifetime.
A bittersweet pang of longing and regret constricted his heart for a moment. While it was a shame his parents only had fifteen years together, maybe, what time they did have was full and rich and real.
He’d never felt so alone.
“Dean? You okay?”
The quilt still clutched in his hands, he turned his attention to the beautiful child at his side, her familiar eyes full of concern. “I’m sorry, honey. This…” He lifted up the quilt. “This just brought back a lot of memories.” Quickly, he refolded it and replaced it in the drawer.
“Aren’t you gonna take it?”
“Not just yet. Right now, it still belongs here.”
Katey nodded as if that made sense to her, then took the lead and headed out of the room and down the stairs, Dean once again tagging behind. Seconds later, they were sitting on the porch steps.
“You gotta come, Dean. Everyone’s goin’ to be there.”
He’d clearly dropped a thread somewhere between the upstairs and the porch. “Come to what?”
She gave a tolerant sigh. “To the Jenkinses’ party. Remember?”
“Oh. Yes.” He frowned. “I don’t know, honey…”
“Please?” She lifted cow eyes to him and Dean wondered how many young men down the road would commit foolish deeds in honor of those eyes. “Jennifer’s going to be there with Lance, and Mama’s going to be busy with all the food, and I think Sarah’s bringing Ed, so I’m going to be all by myself.”
“Ed?”
“I told you about Ed. He’s the other vet at the clinic.”
“Oh…right.” Suddenly, this party looked more interesting. And he thought of the quilt and his parents and the strange longing the quilt had caused in his belly. And he thought, again, how lonely he was. Successful, yes. Busy, yes. But lonely just the same. And God, he was tired of being lonely.
“Sure, Katey,” he said with a decisive nod, wondering if he’d always been this masochistic, or was only just now noticing it. “Sure, I’ll go. But…” He gave her a broad wink. “Only if you’ll be my date.”
“Really?” she said, her eyes even bigger.
“You bet, honey.”
The child’s grin exploded into brilliance as she stuck out her hand to clinch the deal. “You can pick me up at four.”
It w
as one of those days hot enough to weld Sarah’s feet to her sandals, the midday sun eking through a scrim of yellow-gray clouds promising nothing but mugginess. As planned, Vivian carted the Jenkinses away to a two o’clock movie in Opelika, leaving Sarah “in charge” of the party that was to be in place when her mother brought the couple back.
Sarah now stood on the Jenkinses’ front porch, tugging at the sodden front of her T-shirt and watching helplessly as two dozen women armed with mountains of Tupperware and foil-covered pans and plates and bowls descended on the old couple’s house like a hailstorm. Half of them landed in the kitchen, yakking and getting in each other’s way as they went about doing all those last-minute chores that women always seem to have to do at these things, never mind that all the food was supposed to be ready when they got there. The other half milled around in the backyard, yakking and getting in each other’s way as they set up card tables and snapped out permanent-press tablecloths to cover them and set the pans and plates and bowls on top of that, every woman coming behind every other woman and shifting her dish to a more advantageous position.
There were husbands, and children, too, who’d come with the women. The first group had serious business to tend to, namely scrutinizing Tom Rogers’s new Ford pickup; while the kids took off for the pasture or the barn to play until their mothers called them to eat.
Anything to keep out of the way of the women.
Realizing she was superfluous, keeping out of their way soon became Sarah’s goal as well. Not that Sarah was without a project, however—before she’d left, her mother had handed her two naked cake layers and a bowl of fudge frosting and said, just be sure most of this actually gets on the cake, young lady. Sarah was in the process of frosting said cake in the most out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen she could find—and repeatedly sampling the contents of the bowl—when she heard a familiar honk in the driveway.
She stuck the spatula in the frosting, wriggled through assorted womenfolk, then ran through the house, banging back the screen door and consequently letting in at least a dozen flies. “You bring the Cokes?” she shouted in the direction of the white Jeep Cherokee parked almost out to the road.
Runaway Bridesmaid Page 7
