by Emily March
“I need to be sure you’ll be in to open the shop like you promised.”
“I said I’d come in, Mother. I will be there.”
“On time?”
Gillian clenched her teeth, but then relaxed. Her mother’s heart was in the right place, like always. She was just doing what she thought was best for her daughter. Barbara and William Thacker raised children, not snowflakes. “On time.”
“You’ll wash your hair?”
“Mother! I’m not five. I know how to groom myself.”
Barbara let her silence speak for her.
Defensively, Gillian responded, “One day. I ran late one day and I put it up in a bun, and no one but you could tell I hadn’t shampooed. Don’t worry, I’ll wash my hair and brush my teeth and change my underwear.”
“Gillian, don’t even joke about not changing your underwear. Otherwise, I’ll worry myself to death. You’ve been fastidious since the cradle!”
Gillian looked at her flecked and peeling fingernail polish and thought, Times have changed.
Her mother’s voice softened as she added, “I don’t mean to nag. I just worry about you, sweetheart. I always have, I always will. It’s a mother’s lot.”
“I know, Mom. Don’t worry any more than usual. I’ll be okay, and I’ll be at the shop in time to open at ten. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Briskly, she continued, “We don’t have an appointment until noon, so I want you to use that time to add a few touches to our new display window design. I have a theme I’m going with.”
She paused as if waiting for Gillian to ask for information about the theme. Gillian didn’t care enough to do so.
Eventually, Barbara continued, “I’m sure you’ll have some good ideas once you see it. Now, I’d better let you go so you can hop into the shower. Give Peaches a cuddle from Nana. I’ll be in this afternoon and see you then. Bye, sweetheart.”
“Goodbye, Mom.” Gillian let her phone slide from her hand onto the mattress, then started to pull her pillow back over her head. A yip stopped her. She lifted her head and looked toward the foot of the bed where her dog lay curled in the comforter that Gillian had kicked off during the night. Peaches stared at her with reproach. “You’re in cahoots with her, aren’t you? You heard your name.”
The dog rose, stretched, then padded up the bed and onto Gillian. One of Peaches’ hind legs landed in the general area of Gillian’s bladder. When the pup followed that up with a sandpapery lick to her cheek, Gillian admitted defeat and rolled from the bed.
Twenty minutes later, with her clean hair wrapped in a towel and while Peaches feasted on her morning kibble, Gillian stared into her refrigerator in search of something appetizing. Nothing appealed to her, but knowing that her mother was bound to ask if she’d eaten, she grabbed one of the cartons of yogurt Maisy had stocked in the fridge when she visited over the weekend. Key lime pie was one of Gillian’s favorite flavors. Today it tasted like cardboard.
She did not want to go in to work. She didn’t want to look at a wedding gown, much less make nice with a bride. All that white blinded her. The happiness and laughter and excitement and anticipation that were part of every Bliss appointment made her want to throw back her head and howl at the heavens.
She needed to get over it, of course, and she would. Bliss Bridal was her business, her career. She wouldn’t sell her share of the business to her mom. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—let Jeremy take that part of who she was away from her. But right now, she didn’t want to be around that much white. Walking into the shop was like pouring alcohol on an open, oozing wound.
The yogurt hitting her stomach made it churn with nausea. Or maybe just thinking about the tulle trenches had done it. Whatever. She tossed the half-empty carton in the trash and returned to her bedroom and connecting bath to get ready for work. She dried her hair and pulled it into a simple ponytail. She moisturized her skin, but didn’t have the heart to even glance at her makeup drawer. When she opened the top drawer of her dresser, she froze. It was empty. Nothing there but the lavender-scented paper liner. “Oh, hell.”
She’d forgotten to do laundry. Again.
She was entirely out of clean panties.
Her gaze stole toward the corner—nowhere near her laundry hamper, where she’d kicked her clothes after undressing last night—and the pair of pink panties. Just how far had she sunk?
No, not that far. Mom would rise up out of her grave to come after her, and the woman wasn’t even dead yet.
Gillian had to have a clean pair stuck away somewhere, right? An old pair with worn elastic or tattered lace? Surely, she did.
No, she didn’t. Pre-breakup Gillian kept her drawers cleaned out. And her nails done. And her legs shaved.
Not even post-breakup Gillian could wear yesterday’s underwear.
“That’s probably a good sign, don’t you think?” she said to Peaches. Two weeks ago, under similar circumstances, she may well have made a different decision.
So, what choices did she have? Go commando? “Talk about ‘getting grubby,’” she muttered, as an image of Tucker McBride flashed through her mind. Why in the world would she think of him at this particular moment?
Probably because he was former military, and she could easily picture him as a commando dressed in camouflage and wearing face paint while he skulked through a foreign city on a moonlit night. He’d have a knife in his belt and a rifle in his hands and—
“Oh for crying out loud,” Gillian scolded herself. What was that all about? She must be losing her mind.
Shaking off crazy commando thoughts, she focused on her other choice and opened the bottom drawer on her chest. There, she knew, she’d find an acceptable solution to her dilemma, a gift from Maisy at the lingerie shower her friends had given her as part of her bachelorette weekend. Ten minutes later, wearing black fishnet hose with a built-in panty beneath her Bliss uniform of black slacks and a white shirt, Gillian left her house.
It was another gorgeous winter day, so she chose to walk to work. She’d better be careful when crossing the street. Arriving at an emergency room wearing tattered underwear would be bad enough, but fishnet pantyhose? She’d have to move away from Redemption. Probably out of Texas too. To somewhere that didn’t have cell service, so her mother wouldn’t call and chew her butt about the embarrassment of it all every single day for the rest of her life.
Of course, that didn’t take into account the possibility of afterlife haunting. She’d need to be really, really careful when crossing the street.
Thankfully, she arrived at Bliss without incident. She unlocked the door, braced herself, and stepped inside. The atmosphere assaulted her. It smelled like weddings, looked like weddings, and even sounded like weddings—that church bell door chime seriously had to go. The slight lightening of her mood brought about by the walk evaporated, and she spent the next ten minutes going about the usual morning routine in a blue funk.
With preparations completed for opening, she turned her attentions to the task her mother had assigned her. Just inside the display window that faced the courtyard, she found a large square box stacked on top of one of the flat, rectangular boxes that dry cleaners use to preserve wedding gowns. The top box was full of—“What is this?”
Not wedding stuff. Weird stuff. Cordage and a bandana and bandages. Other items she couldn’t identify. There wasn’t a scrap of satin or lace anywhere in the top box. And the second? She moved the top box and saw that the box underneath was filled with fabric. Fabric in a camouflage pattern. Camo?
These things must have been delivered to the wrong place, Gillian thought, as she reached into the box and pulled out—not a bolt of fabric—but a dress. A gown. A camo wedding gown? “Mom has lost her mind.”
What was the woman thinking? Gillian found her phone and called to ask.
“Hello?”
“Mom! Camo?”
Like a cheery, chirpy bird, Barbara said, “You found the boxes, did you? How do you like the gown? I had s
o much fun making it. Have you put it on a mannequin yet? Which one do you think you’ll use?”
“Wait. Just wait. I don’t understand. You made this dress? That’s the secret project you’ve been working on the past few days?”
“Yes.”
“You made a wedding gown out of camo pattern … what kind of fabric is this? Cotton?”
“Cotton broadcloth.”
“Why? Why would you do that? We do satin and silk, ruffles and lace.”
“Not for the next month, we won’t. We’re doing a cross-promotion with Enchanted Canyon Wilderness School for the next four weeks.”
“A cross-promotion,” Gillian repeated.
“Yes. Have you noticed his window? It’s gonna be darling when he’s done.”
Gillian looked outside and across the courtyard and gasped. Loudly.
* * *
Tucker whistled “Get Me to the Church on Time” while putting the finishing touches on his window. He’d had a seriously good time with this project. Whether it achieved his goal or not, he was glad to have made an effort.
After enthusiastically agreeing to his suggestion during his visit to Bliss Bridal Salon while Caroline and Maisy tried to force-feed Gillian chili, Barbara Thacker had given him run of her stockroom for his supplies and helped him make selections. When it came to the wedding gown, however, she’d made a request of her own. He had been ready to take anything, but she wouldn’t hear of that. Barbara Thacker was serious about wedding gowns. She’d wanted him to choose it and to choose something he’d like to see his own bride wearing. “You’re not married yet, I understand?” she’d asked.
“Nope. I’m as single as a person can get.”
He’d felt a little foolish and entirely out of his wheelhouse while scanning the racks of wedding gowns—until he’d mentally pictured Gillian wearing one. After that, he made his selection quickly. Romantic and sparkly and feminine. Gillian Thacker would look like a princess in the wedding gown now draping a mannequin in the display window of Enchanted Canyon Wilderness School.
He couldn’t picture her having added a five-inch fixed blade knife as an accessory, however.
He added a paracord bracelet to the mannequin’s arm, then stepped outside to view the completed project. It caused him to laugh out loud.
Then, because it was a beautiful, sunny winter morning and birds were singing, and the aroma of frying bacon drifted on the air from the Bluebonnet Café, Tucker decided to enjoy the courtyard for the ten minutes or so before he officially opened the shop. Besides, Barbara had told him she intended to ask Gillian to decorate Bliss’s window this morning and sitting in the courtyard would give him a front-row seat.
He sat in the center of the bench, stretched out his legs, laced his fingers behind his head, and extended his elbows. He lifted his face toward the sunshine. He did love being home. The Texas Hill Country in February was hard to beat, having enough winter to notice and enjoy, but not so much that you got tired of it. In DC this time of year, the sky was often gray, temperatures freezing, with snow or ice on the ground. By the time the cherry trees blossomed, he’d inevitably been sick to death of winter.
Of course, some of the sandboxes where he’d been stationed had been damned uncomfortable too. Coldest he’d ever been had been a long, January night in a Middle Eastern desert. Recalling that night sent his thoughts down a memory lane that was full of potholes. He shifted uncomfortably, at first thinking he did so because of a couple of seriously unpleasant mental images, but then he realized the problem was physical. He lowered his arms and shifted his back. Something was poking at his shoulders in addition to his brain.
He glanced down and saw that a nail head had worked its way out of the willow. Further examination revealed a dozen or more similarly protruding nail heads on the bench and surrounding chairs. Tucker started to rise, intending to fetch a hammer from his toolbox and take care of the problem before somebody got hurt, but the violent clang of Bliss’s front door chimes stopped him.
Gillian charged out of the salon, headed across the courtyard toward his front door.
Tucker grinned. He could almost hear “Ride of the Valkyries” playing. Bummed-out Gillian had transformed into a battlefield beauty ready to haul his ass off to Valhalla.
He settled back in his seat and readied to watch the show.
She didn’t see him sitting in the courtyard. Her gaze never veered from the flags flying above his door. He made a bet with himself whether or not she’d barge right in or stop in front of his window.
The window won. Gillian stood in front of it, her hands braced on her hips. She certainly had some color in her cheeks now.
Satisfaction filled Tucker. Smiling happily, he pulled out his phone, thumbed to the photo app, and hit video. Her mother had been a big part of this. He wanted to be able to show her the fruits of her labors. Then, because he didn’t have a good enough angle on her face, he called, “Do you like it?”
She whipped her head around like a hawk on a mouse. Her eyes rounded, then narrowed, and she stalked toward him. Her mother will love this.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?! Are you taking pictures of me?” she demanded.
“No.” He thumbed the off button and lowered his phone. “Video.”
“I’ll have you arrested!”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Stalking.”
“I’m not stalking anybody. I’m just sitting here enjoying the morning and minding my own business when you bang out of your shop and churn toward my shop like an F1 tornado. Everybody pulls out their phones to take pictures of tornados.”
That distracted her. “F1? Why F1?”
“Well, I did have an inner debate between one and two. As defined by the Fujita scale, an F0 causes light damage, an F1, moderate. I didn’t think you’d reach considerable, which is a two, but I could anticipate you losing your cool and throwing things, so I settled on one.”
“I never throw things!” she indignantly exclaimed.
He shrugged and looked pointedly at her left hand. He distinctly recalled her declaring that she’d thrown her engagement ring last September.
She folded her arms, which he couldn’t help but notice plumped up her breasts. The flush on her cheeks deepened. Her pretty blue eyes were twin natural gas flames.
Atta girl. Kiss the depressed look goodbye. Innocently, he asked, “So, what did I do to get you all hot and bothered?”
“I am not hot and bothered. Hot and bothered is … is…”
“What?”
“Sexual. There’s nothing sexual between you and me.”
“Yet. More’s the pity. Nevertheless, due to my army training, I am good at reading body language, and I deduce that you’re upset with me.”
“You deduce that, do you?” she snapped, then added in a sarcastic drawl, “Aren’t you smart?”
“I do have an unusually high IQ, yes.” Tucker chewed the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from laughing out loud. “So, what have I done to upset you, Ms. Thacker?”
She hooked her thumb toward his window. “As if you didn’t know. It’s bad enough that you chose to make sport of me in front of the entire town, but to drag my naive mother in on it too? That’s shameful. Simply shameful.”
“Making sport of you?” Tucker straightened out of his slouch. “I’m not making sport of you.”
Gillian braced her hands on her hips and quoted the signage in his window. “‘Are you prepared for a wedding day disaster?’ And you point it right at my business? You’re making fun of me, and what’s worse, you’ve dragged my mother into the middle of it too. Do you know how she’s spent the last few days? Sewing a wedding dress. Made out of camo!”
“I know about that. I’m anxious to see it.” He reached up, grabbed her hand, and tugged. She plopped down onto the bench beside him, and as she yanked herself free, he continued, “We are not making fun of you, Gillian. Quite the opposite, in fact. You’ve been letting the dipstick write
the narrative. This changes that.”
“What? How? What have you heard?” She closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “I’ve tried not to think about what he’s been saying about me. I’ve tried not to think at all. I’ve been doing a pretty good job of it.”
“So I understand.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Honestly, I haven’t heard anything. Your mom thinks he’s out of town.”
“Probably golfing,” she said glumly as she brushed a white thread off of her black slacks.
“You ex cheats at golf.”
“What?” She looked shocked. “No! He does not.”
“He does. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“When?”
“The Saturday after the two of you broke up, though that news hadn’t made the rounds yet. Jackson and I played with him and an insurance agent. Jones used a foot wedge at least three times. Maybe four.”
“He cheated?” she repeated, wonder in her tone.
She was beginning to relax. Good. “Damn sure did,” Tucker confirmed. “Jackson saw it too. Jones is a good golfer, but I’m better. He didn’t like that.”
“Jackson says you have a nice swing.”
“I do. It’s natural. I have a knack for muscle memory that allows me to maintain my skill without constant practice. So, why was Jackson talking to you about my golf swing?”
“Not me. Caroline. He was telling her some family story, and you were part of it.”
“Ah. Wonder which story it was. He has a few to tell.” Tucker smirked and shook his head. “I have a love/hate relationship with golf. I played on my college team, and I might have made a run at making the pro tour if I hadn’t had my heart set on the army.”
“And the hate part?”
“The most dangerous ground I ever walked were the eighteen holes of a picturesque country club golf course outside of Washington, DC. Place makes the annual rattlesnake roundup over in Sweetwater look like a stroll through Neiman Marcus.”
