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Springtime at Hope Cottage

Page 33

by Annie Rains


  All was dark in the house except for Mother’s room, down the hall. She could hear Mother stirring around in there, waiting for her.

  Sharon turned the other way, toward Daddy’s study. She sat at her father’s desk and opened the top drawer. He always kept the key to the file cabinet there. She found the key without any problem. But she hesitated when she saw the little leather ring box sitting right there in the middle of the drawer.

  She didn’t remember the ring box being there the last time she’d looked for the filing cabinet key.

  She opened the box and gasped. It was Daddy’s wedding band.

  She closed the box and pressed it to her heart for a moment. Daddy had always liked Stony. Maybe this was his way of giving her away.

  She quickly opened the file cabinet and found her birth certificate. Daddy had been a very organized man during his lifetime.

  Now all she needed was to sneak into her bedroom to collect a few necessities, including the diaphragm she’d gotten from Planned Parenthood. But to get to her room, she would have to walk down the hall right past Mother’s bedroom. That would never work. Mother’s bedroom door was open. She was clearly waiting up for Sharon’s return.

  Sharon stood there weighing her options. She decided against going down the hallway. The very last thing she wanted was a big confrontation between Stony and Mother on the day she planned to get married. She would leave Mother’s house with nothing but her birth certificate, her Watermelon Queen dress, and Daddy’s wedding ring.

  Somehow that seemed appropriate.

  * * *

  Justice Henry J. Pearsall had a little house with a room set up as a wedding chapel of sorts. He lived on the outskirts of Augusta and assured Stone that he was quite used to being awakened in the middle of the night for drive-by weddings.

  The license cost less than twenty bucks.

  And now Stone stood in an itty-bitty room wallpapered in pink roses and containing a dozen folding chairs arranged to make an aisle. Mrs. Pearsall, wearing a Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt and a pair of flannel PJ bottoms, banged away at the upright piano, playing the wedding march. The door at the other end of the room opened.

  And suddenly the slightly tacky surroundings faded to gray.

  Boy, Sharon looked like an angel wearing that Watermelon Queen dress. It wasn’t exactly the standard-issue white, but the cascading shades of pink and green suited her tanned skin. She had a carnation in her hair, and a bunch of them clasped in her hands.

  Carnations were the only flower they could find at the all-night Bi-Lo. He would have bought her roses if he could have found some. But Sharon said that carnations were good enough for her, and besides, they were just the right shade to match her dress.

  He didn’t know about that. He really didn’t know about much of anything, because one glance at her and his heart took flight. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the way she looked right at this moment, walking so slowly and softly toward him with a tiny smile on her pink lips.

  He caught her spicy scent as she drew near. His heart nearly burst as she gazed up into his eyes. She was his—his beautiful, amazing, wonderful bride.

  Mr. Pearsall started speaking words that floated beyond Stone’s complete comprehension. But when it came time for him to speak his vows, he said them solemnly and with his whole heart. He would honor and protect and keep her all the days of his life.

  He put the ring on her finger.

  And then she spoke to him, her eyes dark and wide and liquid. And when she suddenly came up with a wedding ring, it seemed almost like a miracle. She took his hand in hers and slipped the plain gold band over his knuckle. It fit perfectly. He smiled down at her. It was a comfort to know that he would wear that ring all his life.

  And then it was time to kiss the bride. And time stood still until he carried her back to his truck and drove like a demon all the way back to Allenberg, where they rented the honeymoon room at the Magnolia Inn.

  It wasn’t much better than the Peach Blossom Motor Court, but he wasn’t paying that much attention to the decor. He was too busy taking off that incredible dress and discovering the wonderful woman underneath.

  EPILOGUE

  August 16, 1990

  Sharon wrapped her arms around Stony and hung on for all she was worth. The hot summer sun beat down on her shoulders as she buried her nose in the soft fabric of his polo shirt. She looked up at him and gently pushed the lock of hair away from his forehead.

  She was not going to cry.

  “I guess the next time I see you I won’t have to worry about your hair.”

  He nodded. His green eyes sober. “I’m going to be okay.”

  “Of course you are,” she said, her voice oddly bright. But she wasn’t a fool. Just yesterday the U.S. Marine Corps had sent more than forty thousand troops to the Persian Gulf. The United States already had a naval blockade in place, and everyone was talking about the possibility of reservists being called up for active duty.

  “I’m going to be fine, honest. You’ll come to my graduation ceremony in November?”

  “Of course I will. I can’t wait to see you all spit and polished.” She ran her fingers through his hair again. “But I’m going to miss your cowlick.”

  “You know I won’t be able to contact you much during boot camp.”

  “I know. I’ll be busy at Carolina.”

  He gave her a sober-eyed look. He was completely fine with her going to college, but she knew he didn’t like the idea of other guys hitting on her.

  “I’ll be studying,” she said.

  “I’ll be able to call you this afternoon to let you know I got to Parris Island, but I won’t be allowed to say anything else.”

  “I know, Stony, I’ve read all the material the Marine Corps sent about the first call home.”

  “Okay. Just so you know. I love you. I’m going to be okay. You have fun at Carolina, okay?”

  She nodded and choked back the tears. She was not going to let him see her cry. She was not going to let him know how scared she’d been by the news reports on CNN.

  Of course he knew that already; otherwise he wouldn’t keep saying he was going to be okay. He was probably scared himself, but Stony would never show that.

  She rose up on tiptoes and gave him the hottest kiss she could muster. She hoped with all her heart that her kiss told him what he needed to know. She would be waiting for him when he got home.

  She let him go. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  His mother, father, little brothers, and sister were there. He hugged them all, even picking Rocky up and giving her a toss into the air that had her giggling. Boy, that little girl adored her brother. God keep him safe, Sharon prayed.

  “I’m going to be okay, everyone. Stop with the long faces.” He grinned. Then he squared his shoulders, turned, and walked purposefully toward the waiting Marine Corps van, which would take him from the Orangeburg recruiting office to Parris Island.

  He didn’t look back.

  Sharon’s stomach lurched. She was afraid she would be sick, like she had been this morning. She swallowed back her emotions along with the bile.

  They were going to be okay. Miriam Randall had matched them up, and that meant they would have their happy-ever-after ending. It was guaranteed. In fact, they were already the talk of the town. No one had ever run off with a Watermelon Queen. No one had ever gotten married in a Watermelon Queen dress.

  Their happy-ever-after ending was guaranteed. And besides, everyone in Last Chance was expecting it.

  Sharon and Stone would just have to wait a little bit for it. But it would come. She had no doubt.

  About the Author

  Hope Ramsay is a USA Today bestselling author of heartwarming contemporary romances set below the Mason-Dixon Line and inspired by the summers she spent with her large family in South Carolina. She has two grown children, a demanding lap cat named Simba, who was born in Uganda, and a precious cockapoo puppy named Daisy. She liv
es in Virginia, where, when she's not writing, she’s knitting or playing her forty-year-old Martin guitar.

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