by Sey, Susan
She grinned cheerfully. “Not me.” She checked her watch and stopping grinning. “Oh, yikes. Annie, listen. Thank you for yelling at me. I know you love me and want what’s best for me, but you’re going to have to trust me on this. Ford and me? We’re good. We really are. And we really, really don’t have time to discuss it anymore. The swans—”
“—are a sign,” Annie said through her teeth.
“No, they’re not. They’re just—”
She stopped when a golf ball sailed over the box hedge that separated their lawn from the neighboring estate. It whistled in from the east and detonated in the pond like a hand grenade. The swans wheeled madly and sent up a chorus of betrayed honks.
Bel and Annie stared speechlessly.
“Oh my lord,” Bel said finally. “Was that a golf ball?”
“Looked like.” Annie squinted into the pond. “Well. This explains a few things.”
CHAPTER THREE
“It came from the Annex,” Bel said. Not a question.
Annie frowned over the hedge. “Yep.”
“James Blake and his insane brothers are at home?”
Annie scratched her nose as they watched another golf ball scream over the bushes and explode into the water. “Must be.”
“At home and using my wedding for a driving range?” Bel tried to modulate her tone but dismay vibrated inside her, with fear sneaking in underneath on slippery little feet. She’d planned this out very carefully. The nouveau riche red-neck neighbors should not be home.
“Miss West?” The florist appeared at Bel’s elbow, his bald head sweaty in the afternoon sun. Too sweaty. A dash of foreboding swirled into the nerves already churning in her gut.
“One second,” Bel said to him. She turned back to Annie. “I thought you said the Statesmen were playing in LA this weekend.”
Annie frowned down at the swans, who were heaving themselves out of the pond with offended dignity. “They are.” She lifted open hands. “At least that’s what it said on the internet when I checked their schedule. I don’t really follow professional soccer so maybe I misunderstood, but it said Statesmen vs. the Galaxy, LA, one p.m. Which, adjusted for the time change is—” She glanced at Bel’s watch. “—about now.”
“So what is their star forward doing teeing off on my swans?”
Annie didn’t have an answer for that one.
“What’s this? We have a tee time?”
Bel turned and found Ford striding down the manicured green carpet of the lawn toward them. Hunt House rose up behind him, as solid and square as Ford himself, and the sight of the two most dependable things in her life steadied her.
The florist tried again. “Miss West,” he said, his plump hands clenched together, his face round and unhappy.
“I’m sorry, just one more minute.” She held out her hands to Ford who took them in his big warm ones.
“Hello, Bel,” he said. “Are we going golfing?”
She kissed his cheek. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
He laughed and patted her veil. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He winked at Annie, then just stared.
“Good lord, Annie. Is that you?”
Color rushed into Annie’s cheeks. She closed her eyes and gave her bare shoulders a furtive pat as if verifying that she was, indeed, displaying several times more skin than usually met with daylight in a calendar year. “A great deal of me, yes,” she said, her smile weak.
“That dress,” Ford said seriously. “It’s...a revelation.”
The blush deepened. “Bel’s idea.”
“Of course. She’s always putting unusual ingredients together and making them into something delicious.” He put an arm around Bel’s shoulders and gave her a fond squeeze, his brown eyes crinkled with laughter. “She’s famous for it, isn’t she?”
A wave of gratitude swept over her. She wasn’t in love with Ford, no, but she absolutely loved him. How could she not? Kindness ran through his character like an underground stream, as deep as it was predictable. If Bel’s life was a ship, Ford was her safe harbor. And she planned to drop anchor permanently in less than an hour now.
“Even my magic has its limits,” she said on a sigh. “Because I can’t think of a single ingredient in my kitchen that would make this situation taste better.”
Ford’s brows lifted. “What situation?”
“Evidently the Blake brothers are playing—”
She broke off as another golf ball sailed over the bushes and landed in the pond. The swans honked their displeasure from the safety of the shore, then turned speculative eyes on the catering tent. Fresh alarm clutched at Bel’s chest and she swallowed an ugly word or two.
“—hooky.”
“I see.” Ford squinted. “Actually, that looks like golf.”
“It is.” Bel smiled grimly. “Only they’re supposed to be playing soccer today. In California.”
“Ah.”
“Miss West?” The florist tried a third time. “Please, if I could just—”
“Sorry, one second more.” She turned to Annie. “Will you please see about the swans? Keep them out of the catering tent if nothing else?”
Annie jerked one shoulder. “Yeah, okay.” She trudged down the hill, her pale shoulders squared.
“And me?” Ford said, his eyes trailing Annie to the edge of the pond. “How about I go next door for a little man-to-man?”
Bel gripped his hands gratefully. “Would you? It would be such a favor.”
“Not at all,” Ford said, his hands warm and solid inside hers. “It’ll be nice to feel useful for a change.”
She blinked, uneasiness tightening her smile. “I’ve made you feel useless?”
“Honey, no.” He gave her a wry smile. “That wasn’t a slap. You’ve been a dream bride, honestly. I’ve barely lifted a finger. Men the world over only wish they were me.” He put a kiss on the end of her nose and Bel thought fleetingly of Annie. People usually want to feel something more than friendship for the guy they’re going to sleep with for the rest of their lives. “But dealing with unruly neighbors? That’s a man’s job. Leave it to me.”
She laughed. “Right. Okay. Go man it up, then.”
“Roger that.” He turned and she watched him march back up the lawn, his shoulders square and broad in his perfectly fitted tux.
“Miss West.” The florist looked ready to cry.
“Sorry,” she said, and mustered up a polite smile. “It’s a little crazy around here.”
He didn’t smile back. In fact, he looked ready to stroke out. She half wished he would. Then he could keep his bad news to himself. A small, mean thought, she scolded herself. Unworthy. She dredged up a little more sincerity for her smile. “You have some flowers to show me?”
“That’s just it.” He clasped his hands together in front of his apron. “I don’t.”
A mild buzz started in Bel’s ears. She flicked a glance at Annie who was flinging breath mints from her purse into the pond. The swans appeared to be debating the merits of going after them. “I’m sorry?”
“There was an accident on the beltway,” he said. “Our delivery van.”
“Oh.” The buzzing intensified. The swans reached a decision and waddled into the pond. Bel struggled to focus. “Is everybody okay?”
“Yes, thank God. But your flowers. Oh, Miss Bel, your beautiful flowers.” He shook his head. “All over the expressway, all those cars...” He spread helpless hands from which Bel surmised a terminal diagnosis. Her flowers were DOA.
“Do we have any of the flowers?” she asked.
“Just the bride’s bouquet and the groom’s boutonniere. I hand carry those to every job.”
“All right. Okay.”
She broke off as another golf ball sailed over the box hedge and detonated in the pond. The swans squawked their displeasure—screw the breath mints—and paddled for shore.
It’s all coming apart, Bel thought. Spinning, spinning, the center starting to give. The old darkness crep
t in with sneaky fingers, tried to crawl up her throat, burn her eyes, turn her hands leaden and useless.
She shook herself. No. She was fine. She was organized. She could handle this. She’d built room into her schedule for a few mishaps, hadn’t she? She hauled in a nice deep breath and held it until her lungs gave in and absorbed some oxygen.
Think, Bel. Just think.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. You see that white picket fence to the left of the main house? Go through the gate in the center. About fifty yards straight back you’ll run right into Kate’s rose garden. You have half an hour.”
The florist’s eyes widened. “You want me to...” He made a snipping motion in the air between them, as if the word was too horrible to say out loud. “In Kate Davis’ personal rose garden?”
“Yes. I’ll answer for it. Make me a miracle.” She checked her watch. “Forty nine minutes.”
He swallowed. “Right. One miracle, coming up.”
“That’s the spirit. I’ll be in the catering tent assembling the cake if you need anything.”
She started for the kitchen at a dead run.
Fifteen minutes later, Bel had four tiers of ivory-fondant-coated, pink-polka-dotted, bow-topped perfection on the cake table before her. She was just piping her new monogram on the top tier and expounding for the camera on the finer points of lettering with royal icing when Kate strode into the catering tent. Bel glanced at her boss’ face and froze mid-letter.
Surviving as the heir apparent to Kate’s hand-crafted domestic fiefdom was less a matter of talent than of being able to instantly and accurately gauge her boss’s mood. And the fixed, on-camera smile on Kate’s face sent Bel’s Mood-o-Meter clear into the red zone.
She straightened. “If this is about the rose garden, I gave the florist permission to—”
Kate’s smile went a bit grim around the edges. “The flowers are fine. It’s the groom we seem to be missing.”
“Ford?” Bel’s mind went blank.
“Unless you have a back up groom waiting in the wings?” Kate lifted a well-shaped brow.
“Of course not.”
“Then yes, Ford. The photographer is asking after him. He seems to be missing.”
Bel’s heart stuttered, then just stopped. “He’s not back yet?”
“Back from where?”
“He went next door,” she said. “The neighbors were using the pond as a driving range again, and he was going to—”
“You sent your groom on an errand? An hour before your wedding?” Her tone implied, with all due politeness, that this constituted a massive error in judgment.
Bel handed Kate her pastry bag. “I’ll go get him.”
“Of course you will.” Kate handed the bag to one of the myriad assistants who orbited her at all times, invisible until their presence was required. “Take a golf cart. And hurry back. You still have makeup and wardrobe, and the ceremony starts in—” She consulted a discreet gold twinkle at her wrist “—thirty two minutes. Cameras are rolling, Belinda.”
Bel ran.
CHAPTER FOUR
James Blake twisted the cap off a fresh bottle of beer, dropped an elbow over the back of his lawn chair and watched his new buddy Ford take a crack at yet another range ball. James’ older brother Will sat in the lawn chair at James’ right elbow, his younger brother Drew sat in the lawn chair to his left. They all watched as Ford addressed the ball, then sent it curving deep into the woods south of the neighbor’s pond.
“Hooked it.” Will sighed with deep disgust and lifted the beer bottle dangling from his fingertips.
“Amen.” Drew helped himself to the cooler.
James squinted after the ball, then back at Ford. The guy would have a right pretty stroke if he’d just relax. Not that he didn’t look relaxed. With that easy smile on his magazine-pretty face and that thousand dollar tux—not rented—he wore like skin, the guy practically dripped smug assurance. Like he was about to marry the prettiest girl in the country club. Richest, too. Probably was.
But James had a sense about these things. Ford was an unhappy man. Not that it took a psychic to figure that one. Half an hour before his scheduled I do and the guy was on his third beer and his second bucket of balls with a bunch of strangers. Plus that was one vicious hook for a dude who looked like he’d been born with a golf club in one hand and a silver spoon in the other.
“Now boys,” James said. “That’s a lot of club right there.” And it was. A soccer-mad Titleist sales rep had gifted James with a prototype driver, and he and his brothers had spent a very enjoyable afternoon putting balls all over creation with it. “Give the man a minute to get a handle on it.”
He stretched his legs out in front of him, pulled his ball cap low enough to take a nap under and nodded Ford toward the bucket of balls. “Relax, son. And remember, a golf club’s like a woman. Just keep your hands soft, pay attention, and for God’s sake don’t rush her. You’ll find the sweet spot soon enough.”
Ford took a pull off his beer and gave them a wry smile. “You’re assuming they all have one. A sweet spot.”
“Well, I guess that depends.” He grinned. “Are we talking about golf clubs or women?”
Ford shrugged. “Either.”
James winced inwardly. So it was like that. The prettiest girl in the country club lacked a sweet spot. Or his new buddy Ford hadn’t located it yet. Bummer. That would explain a lot about the stiff shoulders and self-mocking smile.
James glanced at Will, who shook his head and gave him a look that said so not your business, bro. James plucked the beer bottle from Ford’s hand and nudged him toward the driver again. He waited for the guy to address the ball then tossed the beer off the patio.
Ford burned a ball into the lawn. Will and Drew made twin noises of pained disgust. James gave them a mild look. Drew shrugged and Will rolled his eyes but they shut up.
Ford shook his head. “Okay, I’m done. No point embarrassing myself further.” He set the club aside and looked around for his beer.
Drew glanced at James, raised a brow toward the cooler in silent question. James shook his head. Bad enough that, given the sweet spot issue, the poor guy was already in for a lifetime scored to Ford’s Flaws: The Greatest Hits. Best not put ‘Drunk at our Wedding’ on the playlist.
“There’s no shame in a learning curve,” James told him. “Nothing more admirable than honest hard work. But, listen. Ford. There’s working hard and then there’s forcing it.”
“Forcing it?”
“Sure. I mean, you can’t force something into place if it doesn’t want to—Ow! Damn, Will, watch your elbows!” He rubbed his biceps and glared at his older brother, who mumbled a wholly unconvincing sorry.
“As I was saying,” James continued with a hard look for Will. “You can’t force anything into a place it doesn’t want to be. And it’s been my personal experience that if it feels too much like work, either the timing’s off or the fit isn’t right. Not saying there aren’t tough times, of course. But it shouldn’t be uphill all the way. Life’s too short and too hard to make work for yourself. Some things ought to flow, you know? Roll. They ought to just...” He spread his hands. “Sing.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Will muttered, sinking back into his lawn chair with a beer.
“Sing.” Ford repeated the word slowly, rolling it around in his mouth as if it were some new and delicious food he’d never tasted before. A food he’d never even imagined existed, or if it did, that he’d never received permission to try. He frowned over it, puzzling it into place as all the other pieces scattered to make way.
Then his gaze shifted over James’ left shoulder, locked there. All that moneyed polish fell away and a radiant joy spread over his face.
“Annie,” he breathed. “Annie.”
Uh-oh. James glanced back, saw a woman standing there looking like she’d stepped out of one of those black and white detective flicks. Only this girl was in full color—candy-apple curls springing around her pa
le face, purple silky dress, a few swirly tatts playing peek-a-boo with her neckline. Her eyes were cats-eye green and full of yearning, but her pretty rose-bud mouth was clamped down hard. Fighting it.
“You’re late,” Annie said to Ford.
“I know. I should’ve said something months ago.”
Annie closed her eyes. “For your wedding, Ford. You’re late for your wedding.”
“Screw the wedding.” Ford strode past the lawn chairs, swept the girl into his arms and planted his mouth on hers with an energy that suggested he knew exactly where to find her sweet spot. Had possibly already found it a time or two, if James read things correctly. Annie hesitated—still fighting it—but then her arms rose up and wound around his neck.
Drew leaned in. “Thought he said the bride’s name was Bethany,” he whispered, as if they were at the theater.
“He said Belinda, dumb ass.” Will didn’t bother to keep his voice down. The happy couple didn’t seem to mind. “And that’s not her.”
“Ohhhhhh.” Drew nodded sagely and settled in for an entertaining scene. Will delivered a shot to James’ shoulder. “I told you not to get involved.”
James winced. “What did I do?” He rubbed his arm. “I just said—”
“All your bullshit about flow and singing and what not.” Will snorted and tipped the last of his beer down his throat. “God.”
Ford came up for air at the precise moment a golf cart zipped around the house. It had barely skidded to a stop before a woman leapt off, a whole lot of veil streaming from her head. A paunchy guy with a muscular camera in his hands wobbled out of the other side of the cart. James watched, amused, as the guy sucked in a couple of deep breaths then made a furtive sign of the cross in apparent gratitude for having survived the ride. He shouldered the camera and followed the woman.
Tall and slim, the bride-to-be marched toward them on yard-long legs. A glossy river of hair the color of good maple syrup swung between her shoulder blades. Strong cheekbones in a striking, rectangular face. Dark, snapping eyes. That thoroughbred gait. James lifted his brows. Appealing, he supposed, in a polished, corporate sort of way, but not the prettiest girl in the country club. And probably not the most patient regarding balky sweet spots. Her own or anybody else’s. He almost turned back to root for the curly red-head.
