A February Bride

by Betsy St. Amant

  Besides, what could be so bad? If Hannah’s obvious willingness to bury the hatchet was anything to go by, this opportunity—whatever it may be—could be the catalyst to proving her ability to remain loyal to at least one member of the Hall family. And having Hannah around again would ease that unbearable loneliness that had taken over these past few months. There was no reason they couldn’t rekindle their friendship apart from her brother. No reason for her to have to be around him at all, really.

  “I want you to be my maid of honor.”

  Except maybe that reason.

  Marcus Hall wiped his grease-stained hands on an even dirtier shop rag, then tossed it onto the bench inside his garage before bending back over the car’s fender. Rebuilding the engine in this ’67 Corvette Stingray had proved to be a little more complicated than he’d anticipated—and he still had to check the clearance on the headers—but ever since his sister broke the news of her particular choice in bridesmaids, he’d appreciated the distraction.

  She’d had to pick Allie? His Allie? The only woman who’d ever made sense to him. The only woman who could make an obsession with anything in the shade of turquoise seem cute. The only woman who had ever possessed the power to steer his heart straight over a cliff—and probably still did.

  Guess he’d be finding out.

  When Hannah broke the news yesterday, he threw his wrench against the wall and nearly broke it. The resounding clang had been all but drowned out by the warning alarms wailing in his head. Wasn’t the fact that Valentine’s Day was right around the corner bad enough? The day he’d planned to take Allie back to the scene of their first date, a day he thought he’d be spending as a happily married man. Now he’d be spending what should have been a special holiday at his little sister’s wedding.

  Standing across from his should-be wife as maid of honor.

  He groaned. It was like a reality show setup gone bad. He’d always hated those things. Now he could practically star in one.

  One thing was certain—Allie Andrews meant personal system malfunction. It’d been a solid four months since she’d pealed out of the church parking lot, and he still couldn’t take a full breath when he heard her name. He should be livid over what she’d done, leaving him at the altar with no explanation—or at least, so everyone told him. Maybe anger would be easier to deal with than the ever-present pain, but the emotion just wouldn’t stick. Rolled right off like Rain-X on a windshield.

  The familiar click of heels on concrete alerted him to the fact he was no longer alone. Hannah. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, tipping his chin to acknowledge her presence. Two visits in two days. Never a good sign.

  “You busy?” She offered a timid smile, and he dropped his crossed arms, trying to make his own smile appear more genuine than it felt. This was his little sister’s big moment in life. He wouldn’t ruin it because of his own problems.

  Even if Allie was a big problem.

  “Just fighting this Chevy.” To prove it, he picked up a ratchet he didn’t need and pretended to resume his work. There would probably be a whole lot more “fighting” if Allie showed up to every prewedding shindig and unnecessary couples showers people held for engaged people.

  Definitely a whole lot more pretending.

  Funny how he hadn’t minded all that frou-frou stuff when it’d been his and Allie’s celebration.

  “I just drove over to make sure you weren’t mad at me.” Hannah shuffled inside, twisting her new diamond ring around her finger. She had the same look on her face that she’d had as a kid when he busted her for playing with his model cars.

  He straightened, mentally noting a need to check the timing on the engine. “Not mad.” Not really. More like confused. Why resurrect her friendship with Allie now?

  Some things just needed to stay dead.

  Too bad his heart couldn’t remember that fact.

  Hannah shoved her dark hair behind her ears, the overhead garage light catching the shine in her giant diamond. He wondered briefly—and not for the first time—what Allie had done with hers. And what had happened to all those gifts that had been piled up in the church?

  And why he’d never taken his and Allie’s wedding bands back to the jeweler’s instead of shoving them in his top dresser drawer.

  “So did you hear any more about Texas?”

  So obvious, his sister’s change of subject. But he wasn’t going to argue. Marcus shrugged. “It’s pretty much up to me right now, if I want to go there as regional manager for the new store or just keep my franchise going here in Louisiana. Not sure I have the time right now.” Well, he did, though business had clearly picked up. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to leave. Moving over the border, even temporarily, seemed like some kind of significant Next Step. In the aftermath of losing Allie, it had seemed genius, a decent goal to work toward. Now that it was within reach, it just made him feel like he was slogging boots through mud. Sticky. Heavy.

  He hated that decisions were so hard these days.

  “You know, you sure are here a lot now. You used to do more of your work from home.” Hannah glanced around the packed garage, full of his company’s half-finished motors, three parked cars—one of which remained on a lift—and a grimy workbench covered in tools that his employees had apparently not put away.

  Marcus’s heart constricted, desperate to prevent his sister from saying the words he knew were coming next.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to go back into your home gar—”

  He intentionally nudged the factory headers across the floor with his boot, the squeal of metal against concrete worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.

  Hannah either got the hint or lost interest. “Look, I know it’s going to be weird for you. And Allie.” She hesitated. “I just miss her, and well, it’s my wedding and I can’t imagine her not being there.” She sighed. “Maybe that’s selfish.”

  “It’s not selfish.” He gritted his teeth, looking back down at the engine to hide his expression. He was the one being selfish—this was his sister’s wedding. She had to be more important than his leftover drama. “It’s fine.” Or it would be, at least, soon as it was all over.

  He tried to redirect his attention. More Stingray, less Allie. Let’s see, next he’d tighten down the bolts on the new intake manifold and then check the timing—

  “I’m glad you’re okay with it.” Hannah’s voice pitched, the stifled sound breaking the stillness of the garage. “I just can’t help but hope—”

  He brought his hand down on the radiator shroud with a solid thud, dropping the wrench he’d used on the bolts. “No, Hannah. Don’t hope.” There was no hope. Not with Allie. Not with him. That hope had driven away with her in the passenger seat of their getaway car—his car—when she’d sped from the church.

  And not even tapped the brakes.

  He felt a little bad as Hannah quietly slipped outside, their conversation clearly over—but not bad enough to go after her. Not right now. He turned back to the car, relieved to see that the timing was correct. Finally, something was falling into place. The owner would be thrilled at the improvement.

  But he couldn’t help but wonder if sometimes, new would be better than restored.

  The catchphrase “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” might not be technically true, but it sure felt like it at the moment. Allie flipped another page in the bridal invitation catalog.

  Across the table, Hannah and her mom perused another thick gray booklet. Julie Hall had smiled at Allie when she’d met them there, as if it were perfectly normal for her son’s ex-fiancée to be crashing their mother-daughter time of wedding planning. But Hannah had demanded that Allie be involved in all the details, and there was no time to waste.

  So two days after Hannah had shown up on her front door with the big news, here they were, poring over samples of invitations. Allie had had a hard enough time picking out her own invites last year, yet Hannah asked her opinion like she was some sort of exper
t.

  At least Hannah had a mother whose company she enjoyed. Picking out all of this stuff with Allie’s mom, aunt, and grandmother had been torture. At one point Allie had picked up the display book from the table and gone clear across the room while the three of them argued without her. It was fifteen minutes before they’d noticed she was gone.

  “What about these?” Hannah slid another stock-paper card from the pocket of the book and passed it across the table.

  Allie tilted her head. Two linked hearts with flying doves. Exactly the kind of frilly stuff Marcus hated. She shook off the memory. His opinion didn’t count this time. “It suits you. Does it fit Zach?”

  Hannah opened her mouth, then shut it. “Well. No.” She turned the page.

  “What about this one?” Julie—no, Mrs. Hall, now—turned the book so she and Hannah could both see the simple elegance of the invitation. The corners of the trim thickened into squares, while the sides—any color you chose—cascaded like liquid ribbons to the bottom of the card.

  A card almost exactly like Allie and Marcus’s. Except their trim had been turquoise, while the example was red. Perfect for a Valentine’s wedding. Had Mrs. Hall shown her that particular design on purpose? Or had she truly forgotten what they’d selected last year?

  Her face, so gracefully aged, with precision-arched brows and warm-toned makeup, gave no sign of foul play. This was the same woman who had been so excited to discover Marcus was proposing that she planned a celebration party with Welcome to the Family written in chocolate icing on a cake and cried happy tears when presenting it. The same woman who’d shared her secret family recipes with Allie after their third date, and bought her a Bible with her new last name imprinted on the cover as a wedding gift. The same woman who accompanied Allie to the bridal boutique to play referee between Allie’s aunt, mom, and grandmother, and bought her coffee afterward as a congratulations for surviving the day.

  The woman radiated family, love, and faith. It wasn’t in Julie Hall to be vengeful.

  Then again, if Allie had ever given someone a reason to seek revenge, it’d be this woman, whose beloved youngest son Allie had left at the altar.

  “It’s . . . nice.” She swallowed and looked back at her book, holding her breath for Hannah’s opinion. If she loved it, Marcus would see it and remember. He might not have been all that active in choosing flowers or china patterns, but he’d remember the argument she’d had with her mother over the invitations as they’d flipped through those very books. The same argument that had led to a full-out fight, that had led to tears, which eventually led to Marcus blissfully comforting her in her driveway for twenty minutes.

  Oh, he’d remember.

  Allie peeked from under her lashes at Hannah as her friend studied the invitation. She wrinkled her pert nose and shook her head. “No offense, Mom, but definitely not. Too plain.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. No offense taken.

  Not a single bit.

  The bell on the door handle of Allie’s Antiques hadn’t jingled in over an hour. Which wasn’t exactly great for business, but was even worse for her sanity. Spending time with Hannah the other day had been like turning a key in the lock securing Allie’s closetful of Marcus-memories. And they’d been pouring out ever since, paying no heed to the damage to her heart left in their wake.

  She stared blankly at the tired chest of drawers across from where she perched on a stool behind the front counter, the distressed wooden surface serving as a movie screen for the past. One after the other, memories flashed before her:

  The first time she’d seen Marcus, three years her senior, during a visit to Hannah’s house. She’d been a sophomore in high school, he a freshman in college. He’d seemed so out of her league. It was all she could do to contain her hormonal immature blush after he’d snagged an apple out of the fridge, tossed it in the air before polishing it on his sleeve, and shot her a wink that took her about six weeks to recover from.

  Then there was the first time Marcus had finally seemed to notice her. He’d come home from college, using his business degree to dive into a chain of auto shops across southern Louisiana, and opened a franchise that found immediate success. The mercury had risen into triple digits, taking her temper with it. Twenty-one years old and more than a little impatient, she’d driven up in her protesting old car, ready to junk the entire thing, when Marcus slid from underneath a Camaro he was rebuilding. Without hesitation he’d wiped his hands on a rag, popped the hood of her clunker, and spent the next hour pointing out the value in things she couldn’t see.

  Allie fell in love, both with her best friend’s brother and his unique eye for restoration and worth, which had led to her finally settling on a career choice and opening an antiques shop that barely paid the bills but let her heart soar.

  They became inseparable, marriage a foregone conclusion. She refurnished furniture on the side to make ends meet and knew once she married Marcus she wouldn’t have to worry about bills. Not only was his shop successful, but he rebuilt engines as a well-paying hobby, usually for wealthy car enthusiasts willing, based on Marcus’s stellar reputation, to drive for hours and drop their babies off in the middle of nowhere, aka Beaux Creek, Louisiana.

  Now she had to worry about bills. But that was the least of her concerns—until the rent was due, anyway. No, the top of her list had nothing to do with her budget or monthly sales, and everything to do with how in the world she’d survive the evening—Hannah and Zach’s engagement party at the Beaux Creek Boardwalk.

  Bankruptcy might be preferable to seeing Marcus up close and personal for the first time since she’d jilted him.

  The bell on the door chimed as Mrs. Hawkins, a faithful customer, walked in with a smile. Allie always enjoyed their visits, and today the distraction was especially needed.

  “You didn’t bring me anything today?” Allie faked indifference as the elderly woman laughed and held out her empty hands. Mrs. Hawkins loved to frequent estate sales and was notorious for bringing in junk pieces that were a challenge for Allie to restore.

  “No treasures today.” She shot Allie a feisty wink as she adjusted her purse strap. “But you never know when one might turn up.”

  The older woman went to peruse the back of the store, and Allie refused to let the memories hold her captive again. She turned her attention to the dresser she’d been staring at and whispered truth to herself instead. “Not a movie screen. Just a chest of drawers.” She kept her voice down, though the elderly Mrs. Hawkins was accustomed to all of Allie’s quirks. “Not scarred. Distressed.”

  She squinted. Well, maybe both. There was a fine line between “intentionally distressed” and plain old “beat up.”

  Maybe the dresser just needed a boost. Everything could be redeemed, right? Something to hide its flaws. Highlight its potential.

  Just a little something.

  Something like . . .

  She smiled. Turquoise paint.

  It was like waking up from a bad dream and finding yourself in a nightmare.

  Heart in her throat, dreading and anticipating the inevitable all at once, Allie scanned the crowded dock for any sign of Marcus.

  Why?

  So she could talk to him?

  Or so she could make certain to keep one hors d’oeuvres–toting waiter between them at all times?

  She hadn’t decided yet, but if they were going to be thrown into each other’s presence during the never-ending course of prewedding—not to mention actual wedding—events, they needed to somehow face it, deal with it, and move forward. For Hannah’s sake, of course.

  Allie smoothed the front of her tan sweaterdress, glad she’d decided to wear tights with her chocolate-brown boots since the party was clearly an inside/outside event and the night air beyond chilly. The reception room of the Beaux Creek Boardwalk boasted a picturesque window overlooking the body of water that passed for a lake, except in the heat of summer, when it really did dry up to something more along the lines of a creek.<
br />
  In January, however, the water served as a beautiful backdrop alongside the tiny twinkling lights tacked around the trunks of the nearby cypress and pines. Glowing tiki torches provided celebratory lighting around the patio tables, while the strains of a country ballad, courtesy of the hired DJ, drifted from inside the reception room, where two couples were already braving the makeshift dance floor.

  But nothing could compete with the sight of Marcus standing by the outside soda bar. Dressed in tailored beige pants and an untucked navy-blue button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar opened at the neck, he was the very expression of attractive. Having an in-demand seamstress for a mother had always worked in his favor—he cleaned up well, regardless of how casual or formal the event.

  Tonight was the perfect balance of both.

  He braced one elbow on the tall wooden counter as he sipped from a fizzing cup and scanned the room in typical Marcus-surveillance style.

  Even from a distance she could see the evidence of at least two days sans razor coloring his jaw, a sure sign he was working on a new car that probably had him robbed of anything more than the bare minimum of sleep. His dark hair, normally cropped close for less maintenance, curled slightly long over his ears and collar in waves. New look? Or just too busy to take care of it?

  It looked good, regardless.

  He looked good, regardless.

  And in about five seconds he’d see her.

  Allie’s stomach tightened, then roiled like a traitor. Her palms grew sweaty as her mouth dried. Yep. His gaze would sweep from left to right here any minute now, and she’d be right in the middle of his line of vision. In about three . . .