by Loree Lough
She found it difficult to believe he’d ever been whiny, for any reason, and she said so. And when her words darkened his cheeks with a blush, she said, “I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t have complained about a thing like that.”
Bryce only nodded.
He’d given her permission to ask about the eye, but how deeply could she probe before crossing the line between mild curiosity and blatant nosiness? “Can you…are you able to…does it—”
“Blind as a bat,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s a slim chance that once all the nerves are healed, an operation could return the sight, but….” He shrugged and started fidgeting with the petals of a larkspur. “It hasn’t kept me from doing everything I did before…”
“So since the doctors didn’t give you any guarantees, you don’t see any point in going through all that based on an if.”
“What are you,” he asked, taking her hand, “some kind of mind reader?”
His gentle voice awakened something inside her that she’d never felt before. Not with her high school sweetheart. Certainly not with Joey. Sam didn’t know what to make of the emotions that threatened to put tears in her eyes while at the same time causing her heart to beat double-time. Get a grip, girl, she told herself. Last thing the poor guy needs is to think you feel sorry for him! “Mind reading is your aunt Olive’s job,” she said, hoping the tremor in her voice didn’t register in his ears.
The thumb of his free hand drew slow circles on the back of her hand, and now in addition to a pounding heart, she had a racing pulse to contend with.
“Yeah,” he said, “she does have a knack for it, doesn’t she?”
He was close enough to kiss. She only needed to lean forward an inch, maybe two, to touch her lips to his. But as much as she wanted to, Sam didn’t trust herself to make more of this wonderful moment than what it was: a guy, holding a girl’s hand…period.
Right?
Sam licked her lips, instantly thinking what a stupid thing that was to do, because what if he read it as a signal that she wanted him to kiss her? “I’m glad there’s no pain,” she said again, amazed that she’d found her voice. More amazed that her sentence had actually made some sense.
“Mmm-hmmm,” he said, inching closer.
“It’s too bad they didn’t give you a better chance. To get your sight back, I mean, after an operation,” she rambled. “Not that you need one…an operation that is…because like you said, you’re doing just fine with one eye. Better than some of us do with two!” She giggled nervously. “Look at how clumsy I am, and I’ve got twenty-twenty visio—”
When Bryce bracketed her face with both hands, Sam thought surely her heart would burst with affection for this big sweet guy who’d put his life on the line—who knew how many times—for her and every citizen of the country. She couldn’t explain why, suddenly, the urge to cry welled up inside her. All Sam knew was that Bryce deserved to be loved wholly and completely, and she didn’t know if she was over Joey enough to give him that. At least not yet.
And just as suddenly as tears threatened to spill from her eyes, a thought flitted through her head, warning her that she should fear giggles, not tears, because what made her think that someone like Bryce—a gorgeous, world-traveled, brilliant war hero—wanted love from a little ninny like her!
“What’s so funny?” He didn’t take his hands from her face, but he pulled back a few inches as he added, “C’mon. Out with it. I can take a joke.”
She tried to think of something clever to say, something witty that wouldn’t lead him to believe she’d gone all googly-eyed over him, something that would make them both laugh, so they could put this moment in proper perspective. “It’s…it’s nothing.”
Part of her wanted to protect him from pain of every kind. It didn’t matter that he towered over her, that he likely outweighed her by a hundred pounds. He had vulnerabilities, sensitivities, fears…and she wanted to tell him he could share them with her without worrying that she’d leave him like his ex-fiancée had. She wondered if Debbie had been tall and gorgeous, a red-head or a brunette. Didn’t matter a whit what she looked like, Sam thought. The woman didn’t have a lick of sense. If she had, would she have let a terrific guy like Bryce go?
“Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “guess I’d better finish this stuff or the bride will have my head tomorrow.”
Bryce stood, too, and nodding, said, “Okay, I can take a hint.” Hands pocketed, he walked toward the kitchen door then stopped and faced her. “You want me to shut the door, so you’ll have some privacy while you work?”
“No, it’ll be nice, hearing you putter around over there on your side of the kitchen.” Sam didn’t think she could sound sillier, even if she tried. She wiggled her fingers, embarrassed and enthralled and excited at the memory of his warm hands pressed to her cheeks—and at the thought that he just might be interested in her.
“See you in the morning, then.” He was halfway across the kitchen when he added, “And please, wear the pink dress, not the pants, okay?”
Sam nodded, knowing that if he’d asked her to, she would show up wearing a burlap sack dress and a bucket hat.
Chapter Thirteen
The guy at the Fairbanks tux shop showed him how to make a proper bow tie, but Bryce opted to rent the clip-on style. Now, fastening it in place, he regretted the decision. “How could you have forgotten how uncomfortable this lousy clip feels against your Adam’s apple?” he asked his reflection.
Freshly showered and shaved, he ran a palm across his buzzed head. If he and Duke hadn’t stopped for lunch after the fittings the day before yesterday, they might have missed the traffic jam, leaving him time for a haircut. He couldn’t remember the last time scalp wasn’t visible between hair follicles. Grinning, he thought about pretending the ’do was his wedding gift to Olive, who’d good-naturedly ribbed him about his baldness ever since he’d first enlisted.
If she hadn’t sprung the news of her engagement and wedding on him, he’d have built her an armoire or a replica of those antique secretaries she’d drooled over in her decorating magazines. The jewelry box he’d considered giving to Sam as a birthday gift became Olive’s wedding gift, repurposed as a keepsake box. He had something else in mind for Sam, and in place of her name on top, he’d arranged the intricate inlays to spell out the initials of Olive’s married name instead. Inside, on its red velvet lining, he’d tucked old black and white snapshots—pictures she’d believed his mom and dad had lost or accidentally thrown away—that he’d found while scrounging through a battered box in Rudolph’s storeroom. In her capable, caring hands, they’d find homes in filigreed frames arranged on end tables and dresser tops. Maybe even on the baby grand that would soon be delivered, a surprise wedding present from Duke.
The nearly twenty-mile drive to Fairbanks gave him an opportunity to get to know Duke better, and Bryce had to admit, he liked the guy. Liked him a lot, in fact, and believed the man would mean every word of his marriage vows.
Now the alarm on his watch beeped, alerting him that it was o-seven-hundred hours. Would he ever get used to identifying each passing hour as he had when in uniform? Maybe, he thought. But part of him didn’t want to adjust that well to civilian life. A big part. One good thing about a life with Debbie would have been that she’d never say “seven o’clock,” either.
Though the wedding was scheduled to start at o-nine-hundred, Olive had asked him to get to the church by seven to help Sam line the altar with flowers and hang big satin bows at the end of each pew. He couldn’t think of a marine who’d show up two hours early for anything, not even his own wedding, but Bryce had given his word. He’d never broken a promise to Olive in his life, and didn’t intend to start today of all days.
Tugging at his starched cuffs, Bryce headed for the kitchen. He’d set up the coffeemaker the night before to ensure he wouldn’t splatter anything on the white pleats of the black-buttoned shirt. Grabbing a mug from the cabinet above the pot, he saw that S
am had washed up the cups he’d filled for them last night. Then he saw the small, square envelope propped up against the salt and pepper shakers on the table. She’d written “Bryce” across the front of it, perfectly centered and underlined twice, with a dainty curlicue hanging from the bottom line. Grinning, he picked it up and held it under his nose. Perfume? he thought, his smile widening as he unsheathed the note.
Couldn’t sleep last night, ran the delicate, feminine script, so I baked you a coffee cake. It’ll go great with hot black coffee, don’t you think? And like the day she’d left him homemade chocolate chip cookies, she’d drawn a smiley face. But this time, instead of covering one of its eyes, the eye patch was off to the left. Then, a P.S. It’s in the microwave. One slice = one minute on the timer. Mmmm. Enjoy!
A strange sensation came over him, an undeniable warmth that swirled around his heart, making it tick a beat faster as his pulse pounded harder. It reminded him of the many times he’d gulped too-hot coffee in his rush to hit the road running. He’d tried hard to keep things between them professional, if not platonic, and Bryce couldn’t figure out how or when he’d fallen for her.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Sam was forever doing kind things like this….
Sure enough, there on the microwave’s turntable sat a perfectly iced, golden cake, with toothpicks sticking out of it to keep the plastic wrap from sticking to the glaze. He gathered what he’d need—a knife for slicing, a plate to put it on, a fork to eat it with—and poured himself a mug of coffee as he waited for the appliance to ping.
Eyes closed, he pictured the way she’d looked when he whipped off the eye patch last night. The scar didn’t make her recoil, as it had a few of the women he’d dated. And knowing he’d likely never see out of that eye again hadn’t fazed her in the least, either.
But it had been the look in her eyes, telling him that if she could, she would have erased the injury and everything leading up to it, that had made him grab her pretty little face in his big rough hands. She’d been close enough to kiss, and for the life of him, he didn’t know what had kept him from doing just that. If she’d sensed how much restraint it had taken him to hold back, Sam gave no hint of it.
And like magic, she appeared in the doorway. Backlit by sunshine that pounded through the window behind her, she looked more like a vision than a real live girl.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling. Smiling and blinking those heart-stopping eyes of hers.
She’d worn the pink dress, just as he’d asked her to, and knowing she’d had other options touched him. “I knew you’d look gorgeous in that,” he said, not giving a thought to the fact that he was probably drooling icing down his chin, “and I was right.”
Sam placed a tiny white purse on the table and then hung a length of sheer fabric that matched her dress over the back of the nearest chair. And standing as far from the counter as possible, she poured herself a cup of coffee. “It’d be just like me,” she said, sitting across from him, “to spill something on myself before I even leave the house.”
Watching her, Bryce wondered how a woman could look fresh-faced and innocent yet spellbinding at the same time. “Good cake,” he said instead.
“My brothers’ favorite.”
“So what time are you leaving for the church?”
“Well, I kind of hoped I could ride over there with you. I know it’s a nice day and not a very long walk, but in these…?” Sam held out one little foot to show him an almost-white, high-heeled shoe. “Last thing I need is to end up with my heel stuck in a grate.”
He hadn’t planned to drive, for the very reasons she’d outlined. Once winter set in, enjoying warm weather would be a dim memory, and he’d learned to take advantage of every opportunity to be outdoors. “I don’t know about you riding in that old rattle trap wearing…” He waved his hand around, not knowing what style of dress it was. “…that.”
“I’ll throw a towel on the seat and try not to touch anything.” She sipped the coffee. “Seven brothers, remember?”
He did. And he’d meet one of them in a matter of days. Now why should that make him feel nervous?
The question so stunned him that he bit down too hard on his last bite of cake, clamping his tongue between molars.
“Don’t you just hate it when that happens?” she asked, one hand on his shoulder. “I can’t name many things that hurt as much as…”
Sam withdrew her hand and inhaled a sharp little breath, the look on her face telling him she thought she’d committed a serious blunder by comparing something so trivial to his battle scars.
“My own dumb fault,” he said, wanting to relieve her of that worry. He rose and began rinsing his plate in the sink. “Well, do you have everything ready? To prep the church, I mean?” He groaned. “Oh, shoot. I’ve splashed stuff all over my shirt!”
She was beside him in a heartbeat, daubing at the damp spots with a dry dishtowel. “Might just be water,” she said. “If that’s the case, you’ll be stain-free.” And then she made a thin line of her usually generous lips and emitted a tiny growl. “On second thought…this dumb thing is starched to high heaven. If they used that cheap stuff most dry cleaners prefer, you’ll end up with a wavy little yellow line around every single wet spot.” While Sam fussed over the shirt, blotting and patting and chattering on about the spot, the nearness of her, together with the glint of sunlight in her dark curls and the faint scent of her shampoo wafting into his nostrils, made him deaf to anything but the musical pattern of her speech.
His intent, after leaving her apartment last night, had been to go home and pray that God would give him some direction as to whether he should continue to distance himself from her or else pursue whatever was developing between them. But he’d fallen asleep instead and spent a long, peaceful night dreaming about her. The energized, upbeat mood that greeted him the instant he opened his eyes had been pleasant, but he couldn’t count on it being a sign from above.
“There,” she said, hanging the towel on the swing-arm rack attached to the window frame, “I think that’s it.” She grabbed her purse and her flimsy shawl and then hefted the canvas bags that held the satin bows. Plunking both near the door, she slid two shallow boxes from a shelf in the refrigerator.
Peering over her shoulder, Bryce admired her handiwork. “Hey, those turned out great,” he said while she adjusted a bow on the biggest bouquet.
“This one’s Olive’s, and that’s Millie’s. Duke gets this boutonniere and you get that one,” she said, pointing at each in turn.
But all he saw were the fingernails she’d coated with pearly pink polish. Bryce swallowed and slapped a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll, uh, pull the truck closer to the door,” he said, grabbing a couple of kitchen towels from the drawer beside the sink. Tucking them under one arm, he opened the door. “For the seat,” he explained, “so you won’t get your dress dirty. Meet you out front.”
He shot down the stairs like a bullet from a gun, knowing if he stood there a moment longer, looking into her beautiful eyes, he might be tempted to mess up her lipstick. “Lord, Lord, Lord,” he muttered as he stuffed the bags behind the driver’s seat, “You’d better show me a sign real soon, or I’m the one who’s gonna be in a mess!”
After a heartfelt thanks to Bryce for helping her with the decorations, Sam ducked into the women’s room to touch up her makeup. There she found the president and vice president of the Ladies Auxiliary leaning into the mirror above the double-bowled vanity.
“I think we should sit on the groom’s side,” Mabel was saying as she patted a powder puff to each chubby cheek.
Arlene blotted her lipstick on a sheet of brown paper towel. “Oh, I don’t know…Olive and I have been friends for years and years.”
“Good morning, ladies!” Sam said, stepping up beside them. “Don’t you both look gorgeous today!”
Mabel batted heavily mascaraed eyes. “Said the kettle to the pot. You look wonderful in that color.”
As the women shared a friendly giggle, Mabel elbowed Sam. “What do you think, dear, about helping fill out Duke’s side of the church?”
“I think it’s a great idea. As well loved as Olive is, the church is likely to tilt to the left if we don’t do our best to balance it!”
Arlene sighed. “Do what you please,” she said, snapping her makeup bag shut. “I’m sitting on Olive’s side.” Tucking it into her flowered purse, she added, “Why, I haven’t even been formally introduced to the groom.”
“Neither have I,” Mabel admitted, tidying the black satin bow at the collar of her paisley print dress. “But really now, who in North Pole could claim to have Amy Vanderbilt’s etiquette book memorized, chapter and verse?” Laughing, she turned to Sam. “Have you met him, dear?”
“I have, and he’s a delight. Former marine, just like Bryce.” She winked. “He’s dark and handsome, with a Texas drawl and enough charm to talk the leaves from the trees.”
It was Mabel’s turn to sigh. “Oh, I’ve always loved a man in uniform—and a man with a Southern accent. Guess that explains the whirlwind romance, eh?” And with a wink of her own, she added, “I’m glad I got here early.”
“Why?” Arlene asked.
“So I can sit as close to the front of the church as possible and study him all during the ceremony, of course.” She cupped a hand beside her mouth. “Just don’t tell Ernie!”
And with that, all three women exited the ladies’ room.
Naturally, Sam was looking forward to watching as Olive began the rest of her life with the man of her dreams. But she couldn’t help hoping the wedding would start on time so she could watch Bryce up there on the altar beside Duke.
“Pity, isn’t it, that the groom’s son couldn’t be here to be his father’s best man,” Mabel said.
“Oh, yes…a pity,” Arlene agreed as Frank and Ernie approached, each poking out an elbow for his wife.
