A Coldwater Warm Hearts Wedding

by Lexi Eddings

  “I promise I’ll take care of it,” Lacy said with conviction. “If nothing else is my choice, I will win this one at least.”

  “Seems to me you’re only postponing the argument.” Heather sighed. And later, Lacy’s mother might not feel as well as she did now. Chemo—like guilt over not letting a cancer patient have her way—was a cumulative thing. “You can deal with it now or deal with it later, but the problem is still the same.”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” Lacy tapped her temple. “When I place the order for the bridesmaids’ dresses, I’ll specify delivery for the day before Thanksgiving. When the navy dresses arrive, I’ll just tell Mom the company made a mistake. What with the holiday, there won’t be time to return them, so at that point”—Lacy made an imaginary waving motion with her arm—“we’ll just have to go with the flow.”

  “What a perfectly devious plan,” Heather said, grinning as she opened the door to her place. “I like it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s genetic. Everyone in my family has been known to occasionally stoop to skullduggery to get our way,” Lacy admitted. “And we’re doggedly determined when we set our minds to something.”

  “I’ve seen that quality in your dad.”

  “Exactly! He’s been a committed squirrel fighter since I was a little girl.”

  Heather tactfully refrained from saying he might benefit from commitment of a different type, but in fairness, mental health was not her field.

  “You’ll have to start thinking like an Evans if you intend to keep going out my brother.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not dating Michael.” She waved Lacy into her apartment and then followed her in.

  “You left the reunion dance with him and the pair of you didn’t come back.”

  Lacy settled on one of the stools by the kitchen peninsula while Heather hung up her sweater in the closet near the door.

  “Well, yes, Michael and I ducked out of the dance together, but that was only so I could make sure he was allowed back into the hospital to see your mom.”

  “A technicality. It still counts.” Lacy helped herself to a banana from the bowl of fruit on the counter. “And were you or were you not seen strolling through the territory cemetery with him a few days ago?”

  For someone who took a reporter job at the Coldwater Gazette only under duress, Lacy had developed into a world-class snoop.

  “That was a totally chance meeting,” Heather protested.

  Or was it? Had Michael learned about her weekly visit to Jessica’s grave and timed his accordingly? If so, Heather didn’t know whether to be flattered by his determination to spend time with her or annoyed that he’d manipulated her with her own schedule.

  “Chance meeting, she says! A likely story,” Lacy said, sounding like her lawyerly father. She finished off the banana and three-pointed the peel into the garbage bin beside Heather’s pantry. “He followed me home after choir so he could track you down. And by the way, you also convinced him to join the choir and made him agree to stay in town long enough to sing the Christmas stuff in December.”

  “What? Do you have a drone following me around or something?”

  Lacy laughed and shook her head. “Don’t deny the choir bit. I have your arm-twisting on good authority.”

  “Whose?”

  “Michael’s. He’s my brother, after all. We talk. At least we do since he came back to town,” Lacy said. “So give. What did he make you agree to in exchange for shoring up the Methodist bass section?”

  “What makes you think there was a deal?”

  “Because you’ve been checking your watch every fifteen minutes since three o’clock. You’ve got something going on, and I’ll bet you half your last banana it’s with Michael.”

  Almost involuntarily, Heather checked the time again. Four thirty. She was cutting things close.

  “Since you neither confirm nor deny the allegation, I’ll take your silence for a yes,” Lacy said. “OK, so when’s he coming?”

  “In thirty minutes.”

  “Well, let’s get moving, then.” Lacy slid off the bar stool and made a beeline for the closet in Heather’s bedroom. The prosecuting attorney was instantly gone. Heather feared that Lacy had donned her designer hat. “We don’t have much time.”

  Heather followed her and plopped down on the end of her bed. “After trying to wrestle control of your own wedding from your mom all day, do you really think you ought to take over my date with your brother? And, may I add, without even asking if I want help?”

  “Mirror, mirror, on the wall. I am my mother, after all,” Lacy singsonged. Then she shot Heather a wicked grin. “And I got you to admit it’s a date!”

  Heather clamped her lips closed. Lacy could probably get her to admit she’d thought about little else since she woke this morning. If she half closed her eyes, she could still feel Michael’s solid warmth beside her. And how much she missed it when she woke to find him gone.

  Please God. Don’t let her find out how late he stayed last night.

  “As far as asking for my expert advice goes, you need my help, whether you want it or not.” Lacy started pawing through Heather’s clothes. “So what are you two lovebirds planning on doing?”

  “We’re not lovebirds. I haven’t even given him my phone number yet.” Heather stood and took the sequined tank Lacy was admiring away from her. Then she rehung it before her friend could insist she wear it. Heather’s mom had given her the shimmery thing for Christmas last year. Apart from wearing it for an obligatory meal with her parents, the thing might as well still have the tag on it. She wasn’t about to go riding with Michael looking like a mirror-ball trophy strapped to the back of his bike.

  “If you must know—” she began.

  “And I must,” Lacy said.

  “Your brother is taking me for a ride on his motorcycle.”

  “OK. So we don’t have to spend much time on your hair, but let’s do it now so we don’t forget about it completely. If you’re not dressed when he comes, he can wait. If you still need to do your hair and makeup, I know you. You’d just go without.”

  “No, I”—she sighed—“probably would.”

  Having a friend who knows you inside out is both a blessing and a curse.

  “I rest my case.” The daughter of a retired lawyer was back in full force. Lacy picked up a brush from Heather’s vanity. “And now with intent to commit flawless grooming, might I suggest a ponytail?”

  “I guess.”

  Lacy pointed to the only chair in the room, the seat before Heather’s grandmother’s old vanity, and Heather obediently sat. The piece was a terrible space waster, but Heather kept the vanity for sentimental reasons. When she was a child, Heather watched her grandmother give her waist-length iron-gray hair its nightly hundred strokes at that vanity. Sometimes, she’d let Heather play with those soft tresses.

  Now it was Lacy’s turn. Her friend began running the boar-bristle brush through Heather’s hair as she gathered it in her other hand.

  Heather relaxed into the attention. After seeing to the needs of others all week, it was ridiculously nice to have someone take care of her for a little while.

  “You have such thick hair,” Lacy said admiringly.

  “Yeah, it makes up for the mousy color.”

  “There’s nothing the least mousy about it,” Lacy said with conviction. She was a world-class designer, after all. She should know a thing or two about color. “Your hair is ash brown with plenty of high- and low lights. It’s a perfectly good color that plays well with a medium-cool to warm palette.”

  Lacy’s expert assessment aside, ash brown sounded pretty middle of the road to Heather. Ordinary.

  Jessica’s hair had been golden blond, the color of eternal summer.

  “It works great with your skin tone, too,” Lacy went on.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Never color it.” Lacy held Heather’s hair off her neck. “High or low?”

  “Low,” Heather
decided. “It’ll be easier with a helmet.”

  She was already imagining flying down a winding road with her thighs around Michael, her arms wrapped around his waist. If she didn’t wear a helmet, she could rest her head on his back and listen to his heartbeat thunder under her ear.

  A little thrill shivered through her. Then she tamped it down. Of course she’d wear a helmet. Head trauma was no joke. What was she thinking?

  I gotta lay off those romance novels.

  Lacy divided a section of Heather’s hair up front and clipped it to give her a bit of a pouf.

  Heather turned this way and that to consider the effect in her grandmother’s mirror. “Isn’t that a little too Jersey Shore?”

  “You’re right.” Lacy unhooked the clip and smoothed Heather’s hair into a low ponytail, which she fastened with a brown elastic band. “And now back to the closet. What are you planning to wear?”

  “Jeans and a denim jacket.”

  “All right. I’d have suggested you go shopping and get some leather pants if I’d known about this sooner, but jeans will do,” Lacy said. “What about under the jacket?”

  “I was thinking this.” She whipped out a beige cambric shirt. Lightweight and cool, it was her go-to top when she didn’t know what to wear.

  “Bleh! Let’s get some color on you.” Lacy took the offending beige top and tossed it on the bed. Since her artistic designer urges had been thwarted enough in the matter of her wedding, she was ready to give them free rein now. She pulled out a pale blue tank, a warm orange peasant top with lace along the hem, and a black-and-white geometric print blouse with multicolored polka dots interspersed between the bold black slashes. It wasn’t what Heather usually wore, but the sales clerk at Unique Boutique had talked her into it a few weeks ago.

  “Let’s get you out of your comfort zone, shall we?” the clerk had said. “This print just shouts, ‘I’m strong and assertive,’ doesn’t it?”

  Unlike the sequined tank, the tags were still on this one. She’d worn the mirror-ball top once, but Heather hadn’t felt strong and assertive enough to leave the apartment in this geometric and polka-dot explosion yet.

  “Which one do you like best?” she asked her friend as they considered the three tops spread out on the bed.

  “Either the blue or the orange.” Lacy narrowed her eyes at them as if visualizing Heather in each. “Both will work well with jeans and a jacket, though I’m leaning toward the orange.”

  “Then why did you even pull out the print?”

  “Because you should burn it, and whoever sold it to you should be horsewhipped.”

  “Gee, I wish you had an opinion.” Heather picked up the print blouse and stowed it back in the closet. Maybe Unique Boutique would let her exchange it for something she felt comfortable in.

  Probably something beige.

  “What about shoes?” Lacy asked.

  “I was thinking I’d wear my sneakers.” Heather pulled her pair of lavender tennis shoes from the bottom of the closet.

  “No. Those won’t work.”

  Heather wanted to ask why, but was afraid Lacy would tell her to burn them, too. They were her favorites.

  “Got any bright green heels?” Lacy asked. “The higher, the better.”

  “Heels?”

  “Nothing’s hotter than jeans and heels. And don’t worry. Michael’s tall enough that your height won’t intimidate him a bit.”

  “No, it won’t, but heels will just give him a chance to call me ‘Stilts’ again.”

  “I told him he shouldn’t do that, but I think he means it in the nicest possible way.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I’m not wearing heels to ride a motorcycle.” She felt awkward enough without having to worry about whether or not she’d sprain her ankle on the dismount.

  “You’re probably right. How about boots?”

  Like any good Coldwater Cove girl, Heather had a couple pairs of cowboy boots. She dug them both from the bottom of the closet. One was glossy black leather with silver tips and the other was an impossible shade of lime green with turquoise insets—another of her mother’s Christmas presents she’d worn exactly once.

  “You know, you could really rock those green ones with the orange top,” Lacy said.

  “No.”

  “Come on. You’ll hardly see them from way up there.”

  “Is that a tall joke?”

  “Little bit.” Lacy grimaced and shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry. Come on.Wear the green boots and I’ll never ask you for anything else as long as we live.”

  Heather eyed her doubtfully. “You’re sure.”

  “Trust me.” She rifled through Heather’s jewelry and came up with the leather bag that held her grandmother’s pearls. “These will be great—a little class to go with the casual. Put it all on and come model when you’re done.” Lacy headed back into the living room, closing the bedroom door behind her. “And don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Heather peeled off the clothes she’d worn all day and hopped into the shower for a quick scrub. Then she set a land speed record for toweling off and putting on the outfit and accessories Lacy had picked out for her.

  She made plenty of decisions at work, but she felt confident about those. It was all science, and she’d always excelled in classes where the answers were clear-cut and provable.

  Fashion strayed into the artsy world of personal preference. That had never been her strong suit, so it was a relief to leave this choice to someone else. Especially someone like Lacy, who had both a flair for design and Heather’s best interests at heart. After she tugged on the last green boot, she joined her friend in the other room.

  “Well?” Heather turned in a slow circle, hands extended palms up. “What do you think?”

  Lacy had helped herself to a glass of sweet tea while Heather dressed. She set it down on an end table now and gave her an openmouthed once-over. “You look fantastic, Heather. No lie. Totally hot. It’s like you stepped from the pages of Cosmo or something. You are so far out of my chuckle-headed brother’s league, it’s not even funny.”

  Heather found that hilarious. Lacy was exaggerating, but it gave her spirits such a lift. She had never expected to feel so . . . fluttery over a guy, least of all someone like Michael Evans, someone who lived to flout the rules and made her mother faint dead away.

  But after spending last evening with him, she was beginning to think he didn’t deserve his bad-boy reputation. At least, not anymore. Michael had a surprisingly sweet side that he didn’t show to many people. He’d shown it to her. And, whether it was wise or not, she’d felt safe to trust him with some of her deepest secrets.

  So it wouldn’t hurt for her to dress to impress him. If Lacy’s reaction was any guide, she certainly would.

  Heather glanced at her wrist and discovered she hadn’t put her watch back on. “What time is it?”

  Lacy pulled out her phone. A frown drew her brows together. “Five thirty.”

  Michael was late. Well, she ought not to make a big deal about it. After all, she hadn’t made it to choir at all last night, and he hadn’t seemed upset.

  Heather went to the kitchen and got a glass of iced tea for herself.

  “He should call if he’s going to be late,” Lacy said sourly. “When we were growing up, punctuality was next to godliness at our house. Honest, I used to tell people I’d rather be caught pregnant out-of-wedlock than show up after curfew to face my dad. Seriously, Michael knows better. He ought to at least call.”

  Heather’s insides spiraled downward and then zipped back up when she remembered why he couldn’t. “Maybe he wants to, but can’t. I didn’t give him my number.”

  “Oh.” Lacy nodded. “That was smart of you, actually. Play hard to get. Guys like the chase.”

  Lacy launched into a one-sided diatribe about her mother’s idea of wedding décor again. Heather suspected it was just to keep her from wondering what was keeping Mike, but she was grateful for the distraction. Another thirty mi
nutes went by.

  Still no sign of Michael.

  “Well, this is getting annoying. I was hoping to get in some sisterly ribbing when he showed up.” Lacy thumbed her phone. “He may not have your number, but I’ve got his. Let’s see where he is.”

  Lacy punched a few buttons and held the receiver to her ear. She frowned. “It went straight to voice mail.”

  “Well, if he’s on a motorcycle, he wouldn’t hear a phone ring, would he?” Heather said, hoping that was the reason, and he was on his way.

  Lacy punched a few more buttons. “Oh! Looks like I’ve got a voice mail.”

  “From Michael?”

  “No, from work.” Lacy put the phone back to her ear and listened for a minute. Then she clicked off and pocketed the phone. “I have to go in early tomorrow. There’s some lady with a doctorate who wants to crawl around in the dungeon and I have to babysit her.”

  “The dungeon?”

  “It’s the basement where the archives are kept. Wanda can’t stand for a stranger to mess up her files. As if there was any semblance of order to them in the first place.”

  Lacy rose, collected both of their tea glasses, and put them in the sink. “I need to get home to feed the attack cat before Jake shows up for his supper.”

  When Lacy had moved into her apartment last spring, she’d inherited a semi-deranged Siamese, abandoned there by the previous tenant. She often described her new pet Effie as “a one-person cat that’s still looking for her person.”

  Lacy and Jake were keeping separate apartments until after the wedding, mostly for the convenience of their pets. If the animals were left alone, Lacy was afraid that Effie the Terrible would decide to eat Speedbump, the homeless little mutt Jake had rescued from traffic. Until an all-species truce was declared, the feline/canine visits were heavily regulated.

  “After Jake’s been cooking at the Green Apple all day, I try to give him a break, but I’m not nearly as good as he is,” Lacy said as she headed toward the door. “Guess I never saw the point. I mean, why spend so much time and energy on cooking when somebody’s just going to eat it and it’ll be nothing but a memory?”

  “What is life but a collection of memories?” Heather said, trying to keep the mood light. As a nurse, she’d seen her share of worst-case scenarios. The last thing she wanted to do was infect Mike’s sister with her what-ifs. “Put a sprig of parsley on the plate and it’ll look like you tried to get fancy.”