A February Bride

by Betsy St. Amant

He absently rubbed at a dust smudge on the side-view mirror. After the wedding festivities were over, he’d leave. Take that job opportunity in east Texas and head out. There was no reason to stay. But there might be plenty of reasons to go.

  He knocked lightly on the hood of the Mustang, the slight sound echoing through the garage. First he had to rid himself of the car. Then he had to let go.

  Completely.

  Maybe she didn’t have to completely let go of Marcus after all.

  Allie ran her favorite blue feather duster over the tableful of ancient vases in her store, careful not to knock over the antique birdcage set up on the end. The more she thought about that picture Hannah had shown her, the more she wondered if she and Marcus could find a new normal. Maybe not the future they’d imagined, but a friendship, at the least. A way to be around each other, perhaps even enjoy each other’s company, for the sake of her connection with Hannah.

  And okay, a little bit for her own sake as well. Because if she and Marcus could figure out how to redefine their former relationship into a current friendship, everyone won. She could stop being the bad guy for ditching him, he would finally see that he was better off without her as a wife, his family would feel like her own again, and she and Hannah could stay friends—everything would be as it should.

  Or close to it. If she couldn’t have it all with Marcus, something would be better than nothing.

  Because right now, having gotten a taste of his presence again, having seen his interactions with family and his smile up close and the way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed . . . it’d be worse torture letting him go again.

  She moved away from the table of vases and began to dust an old china cabinet and the collection of porcelain bunnies perched on the bottom shelf. He didn’t hate her, at least. The picture revealed that much, even if it was blurry on everything else. And if he didn’t hate her, then there was a chance for her plan to work. They’d find a way to be friends, stay in each other’s lives.

  She missed him.

  But it was going to take a gesture. Something to show him that while he might not understand why she did what she did—and he couldn’t, because if she ever told him, he’d surely try to talk her out of it—it wasn’t because she didn’t care about him.

  The chime of the bell and a whiff of floral perfume announced Mrs. Hawkins’s presence before the top of her gray bun appeared over the dresser. Allie peered around the piece of dusty furniture and grinned. “Did you bring me a treasure today?”

  Her elderly friend smiled back. “It’s a good one too. Seemed perfect for you.”

  Allie came out from behind the dresser. Mrs. Hawkins’s great-nephews, teenagers who had served as her musclemen many times over the years, stood in jeans and slightly rumpled T-shirts beside a long, almost dilapidated piece of wood with back shelves that might have been a workbench at one point. Allie squinted as she set down her duster and moved closer.

  Mrs. Hawkins stood back, her hands in the pockets of her elastic-waist plaid skirt, and rocked slightly on her therapeutic shoes. She knew not to interrupt an evaluation, and so did her boys.

  Allie ran her hands lightly over the piece. The backing had partially torn away from the bench seat and needed some screws. The wood itself was scuffed and faded, needed sanding at the least, definitely a stain.

  She rocked the piece slightly with her hand a few times. The legs still seemed sturdy, which meant at one point it’d been quality craftsmanship. She could fix it up, probably turn a profit without too much effort. Though she was starting to run out of places on the floor to display these bigger pieces.

  Unless . . .

  She looked harder. It was exactly the style bench Marcus used to compliment, and had always needed in his home garage. She had no idea if he’d ever gotten one, but maybe . . . maybe this was the answer to her dilemma. If she restored the bench and gave it to him as a gift, he’d know they were on good terms and had a future as friends. That she hadn’t iced him out, that she still cared about him—probably more than she should.

  But the bench wouldn’t say all that.

  “I’ll take it.” Allie held out her hand to Mrs. Hawkins, and they shook before Allie excitedly turned back to her treasure.

  She’d make sure it said just enough.

  Allie was everywhere.

  It was like as soon as Marcus decided he couldn’t handle being around her and he should pull back, there she was. They’d managed to go for four months in the same small town without running into each other—he avoided her shop, she avoided his garage and his family’s house, he started attending a different church.

  Now she was suddenly at the bank when he stopped to make a business deposit, at the post office when he went with Hannah to buy stamps for Zach’s tool shower invitation mail-out, at the grocery store when he pushed the cart for his mom to buy a ridiculous amount of beef jerky to use as centerpieces for the shower.

  He was almost starting to hate tools.

  Then one afternoon there she was sitting in his mom’s kitchen assisting Hannah with thank-you notes, surrounded by fresh-baked cookies and smiling at him sweeter than the chocolate chips themselves.

  It didn’t help that February had also invaded Beaux Creek, ushering in a plethora of cut-out hearts and lace in store windows and dangling off end-cap displays like nothing he’d ever seen. It almost put Hannah’s party decorations to shame. The entire town had been bitten by the Valentine bug. The reminders of what could have been—should have been—were enough to drive a man insane.

  He got in his truck after leaving the grocery store, the radio set to his favorite country station, and flinched at the lyrics to a popular song referencing how mid-February shouldn’t be so scary. He couldn’t agree more—as he quickly changed the dial. To hard rock. Since he hated the genre, at least Allie couldn’t linger there.

  If he hadn’t seen Allie so much in town the past few weeks, he’d have been surprised to see her strolling into his garage at work that morning, looking cute in a turquoise sweater and jeans tucked into boots—too cute, in fact, to be parading around in front of his grease-stained, male-minded employees.

  “Outside.” His voice was harsher than he meant it to be as he took her arm in his gloved hands and steered her back out the way she had come, careful to stay close behind her to shield her from view. He loved his team of workers but didn’t love the way they were eyeballing and elbowing.

  Especially now that they knew Allie was single.

  She protested and tried to look at him as he propelled her back toward her car in the nearly empty lot.

  They finally stopped near her driver’s side, and he pulled off his work gloves and shoved them into the pockets of his coveralls. He’d been working on engines today in the bay, so he’d traded the jeans and company polo in for the working gear. Not that he cared how Allie thought he looked.

  Though his biceps were definitely more defined in the polo.

  “What’s wrong?” She shaded her eyes against the setting sun as she peered up at him.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Then what was all that about?” She shifted, attempting to gain her footing in her boots on the gravel ground. He automatically reached to steady her, and the electricity from his touch against her shoulder sparked his hand—and it only had a little to do with winter static. He dropped his grip and stepped back a bit. That was all he needed—a chemistry fire at his garage.

  “It was nothing.” He shifted his weight slightly to help block the glare of sunshine for her. “Just . . . nothing.” Yeah, he wasn’t going to explain his desire to protect her still. Not even.

  He cleared his throat. “What’s up with you?” In other words, Why are you here?—but he couldn’t be that rude. Not while looking down into those green eyes, almost the same color as her sweater. He suddenly appreciated her turquoise obsession in a new way.

  “I wanted your opinion on a gift for Zach.” The chilly February wind lifted her hair as she pl
ayed with the flower petal charm on her necklace, zipping it around the chain. A nervous habit she’d always had.

  “Didn’t he make a registry?” He and Allie had certainly made enough when they were going through the process last year.

  “Well, yeah, but with tools I still don’t know the right thing to get, and I want it to be nice.” Allie let go of her necklace and grinned. “I know what tools to use to restore furniture, but not to repair a toilet or any other random household issue.”

  Marcus loved his soon-to-be brother-in-law, but Zach wouldn’t have a clue either. The poor guy would have to call a plumber regardless of how many tools sat in his barn.

  “Just get something in your price range. If it’s on his list, it’s something he’ll appreciate.”

  How many showers were these guys going to have, anyway? He didn’t remember having that many with Allie; then again, he’d been distracted during that entire season. He’d been more invested in the marriage coming afterward than in registering for silverware and oven mitts.

  He’d trade all his tools for Allie in a heartbeat. That is, he would have—he needed to remember to keep that sentiment in the past tense.

  “Maybe you could come with me.” Her tone pitched slightly higher. With nerves? Hope? “Or we could go in together and get something really nice, if you haven’t bought anything yet.”

  He hadn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

  He crossed his arms, using the excuse of a motorcycle roaring down the side street to turn slightly away from her as he tried to steel himself against her request. She left him. She bailed.

  And now she was asking him to be her hero with a toolbox?

  No. He couldn’t do it.

  He understood playing nice for the sake of his sister’s wedding, but if he kept giving in to Allie’s requests for help, he’d be back to square one on the misery scale. The flat tire he couldn’t avoid, not without being a jerk. He’d have helped anyone in that situation.

  But this he could avoid.

  He couldn’t let her do that to his heart again.

  “I’m really busy here at the garage.” He gestured behind him to the car business that ran like a well-oiled machine itself.

  Allie followed his gaze, confusion and doubt highlighting her eyes. “Lunch break?”

  “I’m on a special project.” He kept his jaw tight, gaze averted. If he looked her in the eyes now, he’d cave. Take her to the hardware store in a dang limousine and probably buy flowers along the way.

  Not happening.

  She pulled open her car door, and the key chime dinged. “I see.”

  He risked a glance and regretted it. Hurt had replaced the confusion in her eyes, and he struggled to stand his ground. She didn’t really see at all, but she needed to.

  Because after this whole shindig was over, he was going to find out how fast his car could go from zero to sixty across the Texas border.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have gone.

  Allie strolled the main aisle of the hardware store, staring at hammers and screwdrivers and various pouches of nails as if they might hold the answer to Marcus’s sudden attitude change. What had shifted? It was probably a little gutsy of her to show up at his work, especially considering that the last time she’d done so, she’d been bringing him lunch the week before their wedding.

  But still. She’d been sure after the coed party and that picture of him looking at her that way that he’d be on board with the attempt at friendship. Didn’t he feel the same way she did, wanting to make things civil? Why else would he be so lighthearted during the faux-wedding-dress game, enough for it to have been captured on camera? Why else would he have been so sweet about changing her tire and so friendly every time he ran into her in town these past few weeks? She’d thought they were on the same page, but now he was acting really distant. Almost rude.

  They had to figure this out.

  Allie glanced again at the registry list she’d printed out, absently scanning through the price column until she found a number she could handle. She was going to finish the workbench for Marcus regardless. He deserved it. She’d already sanded and stained the piece, and secured the back to the bench. Now she was just waiting to give it a second coat of stain, and it’d be ready to give to him. Maybe after that he’d see how she felt, understand what she meant.

  Or maybe she’d misread the entire thing. And was now going to have to try to sell a restored workbench.

  She picked up an electric drill, then put it down again. The bench still didn’t feel quite finished. It needed a message, a signature or a quote or a picture engraved. Something that meant something to Marcus specifically and would remind him of her—in a positive way.

  So what positively said, I still love you, even though I left you at the altar, and trust me, you’re better off avoiding my curse, but I do care about you regardless?

  She groaned and flipped to the next page of the printout. Maybe this was a bad idea. One of many, the first being the antennae headband. Or no, the first being agreeing to wear her mother’s stupid dress in the first place. She didn’t believe in curses, not really—not in the New Orleans voodoo sense or anything. But she believed what the Bible said about generational sins, and she knew that her baggage weighed heavily on her shoulders. She didn’t want to transfer that to Marcus, not when he’d come from such perfection. How could he carry that and not resent her later? Not regret the entire marriage? It was too much, even for someone as good as gold like Marcus.

  He deserved better than what she and her family had to offer. Better than a cursed future and a cursed dress and a wife destined to repeat history.

  The figures on the page before her blurred as her eyelids welled with tears, and she blinked rapidly to clear them, swiping one finger under her eye and taking a deep breath.

  “Hey, no crying on the registry.” A familiar voice broke through the noise in her head, and Marcus’s hands tugged the stapled papers from her grasp.

  Allie sniffed and wiped her eyes again before forcing a smile, taking in his jeans and company polo shirt, and the way the fit hugged his muscles. Great, now not only was she a lovesick Martian, she was an emotional one with raccoon eyes from smeared mascara.

  But he’d come.

  And that just made her want to cry all over again.

  She drew a ragged breath, trying to push back the emotion. It was just a hardware store. None of that changed the way he’d acted at his garage. “What are you—”

  “Doing here?” Marcus tapped the page she’d just been looking at, and his gaze said a whole lot more than his words. Her breath caught in her throat at the apology in his eyes. “Shopping for a tool shower. You?”

  “Same, ironically.” She snorted back a laugh. He’d always been able to diffuse a tense situation.

  Too bad he hadn’t been in the bridal room with her last September.

  “Then why don’t we go in together on the drill?” His eyes softened. “Sound good?”

  Yes. Too good. This team thing was going to mess with her head. But she managed a nod and a real smile, and he tugged the drill box off the shelf, tucking it under one arm as he handed her back the list.

  She followed him to the checkout line, hovering near his elbow and trying to drink in his citrus cologne without his noticing. As long as this new “same team” effort only messed with her head, and not his.

  He’d hurt enough already, but her pain quota would, rightly so, never be full.

  Marcus sat on the couch and eyed the blue-striped gift box that held a card touting his and Allie’s names. Together.

  As it should have been, except nothing was as it should have been. He sat on one end of the sofa in Zach’s mother’s living room, while Allie sat in an armchair too many feet to his left. She should have been perched on his knee so he could run his fingers through the ends of her hair while she laughed at the small talk and awkward ice-breaker games everyone played when blending families tried to get to know each other. She should have been
offering him the last bite of that artichoke-and-cheese quiche thing she’d eaten half of and hadn’t finished, should have been using him as her cup holder while she touched up her lipstick. All those couple things he’d taken for granted when they were together.

  Now, watching her swing one jean-clad crossed leg absently in that chair, her high-heeled shoe dangling from her toes, sitting much too far away, he just wanted to ask if he could hold something for her. Hand her her purse. Refill her soda.

  If any of his employees ever talked like that, he’d smack them. Yet here he was, moony over the woman he should be closer to despising than loving.

  He knew he shouldn’t have gone in on that gift with her. But when he’d shown up at the store on an errand for work, half hoping she’d already be gone and half hoping he’d run into her, he’d caved. Melted, like that tear that he saw dripping down her cheek as she stared hopelessly at the registry list.

  She hadn’t been crying over the list. He knew Allie well enough to know that much. She’d been upset over something else, and he couldn’t shake the thought it might have been over the way he’d acted at the garage. She might have ditched him at the altar, but for whatever reason, she was now trying to be nice. Not flirty, but sweet. Sincere. Genuine.

  Just Allie.

  Which was almost worse.

  Flirty he could fend off. He could guard against that, could see through it and know it was a game or an angle he didn’t want anything to do with.

  But when she was just herself, her old self, the Allie he could recognize a mile away, well . . . his wall crumbled faster than those darn cookies she’d made the other day with Hannah. And he started doing ridiculous things without his wall, like offering to pay for half of electric drills and picking out gift wrap at the hardware store counter.

  “Time for a game!” Zach’s mom suddenly stood up from the fireplace hearth, the same manic gleam in her eye that his own mother had displayed before announcing the toilet-paper dress competition.

  Marcus stood as well and made a beeline for the kitchen with his trash. He’d be sure to take his time throwing it all away so he’d miss whatever crazy concoction they’d come up with next. And if anyone said anything about a Valentine, well, he might have to find a hammer from the gift basket on the table and put himself out of his misery. At least the wedding was in a few days, and all of this madness would finally end.