The Fifty-Cent Groom

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Copyright

  “Aren’t you the least bit leery of hitting on a woman In a wedding gown?

  “This dress has commitment written all over it, and I’d bet the ranch that you’re the kind of guy who starts singing ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ after the second date. You don’t scare me, Ben. I had you pegged long before I invited you to climb into this van with me. Now, be the nice guy that you really are and unbutton the dress.”

  “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you, Sara?”

  “Look, Ben, I just need your body for a few hours. That’s all. The rest is incidental. Now, would you please slip in behind me and start unbuttoning.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to pull over and actually stop the vehicle?”

  “My entire future hinges on what happens tonight, and I am not going to arrive late. Now, there’s plenty of room, so just throw your leg over, straddle the seat and ease your way down.”

  “You’re the boss,” Ben said, wondering—not for the first time—just what he was getting himself into with this bold and beautiful bride.

  Dear Reader,

  Magic, like love, is in the eye of the beholder. So who’s to say that magic, along with love, can’t be stitched into the seams of a wedding dress…an antique gown that changes the lives of three special brides and their unsuspecting bridegrooms. I imagined just such a dress and the trouble that might follow if it was mistakenly delivered to a practical, plan-your-work-and-work-your-plan kind of lady. When the magic wedding dress twinkles at Sara Gunnerson and sends her crashing into the arms of Ben Northcross, trouble is exactly what occurs in The Fifty-Cent Groom.

  Daydreamer that I am, I believe it could happen and, as you read Sara and Ben’s story, I hope you will believe it, too. After all, isn’t there a touch of magic, a gentle twist of fate, any time a man and woman fall in love?

  The Fifty-Cent Groom

  Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Chapter One

  If the dress hadn’t twinkled at her, Sara Gunnerson never would have put it on.

  In all her twenty-eight years, she had never done anything so foolish, so completely impulsive. But from the moment her brother had carried it into the house, she had been drawn to the antique wedding gown like a bee to a blossom.

  It was obvious, of course, that the dress was wrong from hem to veil. It was not the gown she’d sent Jason to pick up at the dry cleaners. And it definitely was not the sleek, slim-skirted bridal ensemble she was supposed to deliver to the church on Saturday. If she showed up with this dress, tomorrow’s wedding would very likely be the last she was hired to coordinate.

  And even knowing that, she had stood staring-smiling, actually—at the dress. Lost in some kind of daydream, bound by some kind of spell.

  She had talked to Jason, fussed at him for not noticing the mistake, listened to bis ever-ready excuses and heard him say he hadn’t even looked at the dress, that he had just accepted what the clerk at the Starz Laundry and Dry Cleaners handed him. How was he to have known it wasn’t the wedding gown Sara had sent him to pick up? What did he know about brides and what they wore? With all the pickups and deliveries she’d given him to do that day, when had he had time to look at a stupid wedding dress? If she didn’t like the way he did things, why didn’t she do it all herself?

  He’d slammed the door on his way out, and she hadn’t shifted her attention from the dress long enough to have the last word.

  Not that it was the most beautiful bridal gown she’d ever set eyes on. It wasn’t. And not that it was the kind of dress she had dreamed of wearing someday. It wasn’t that, either. But she couldn’t stay away from it, and even after she hung it in her bedroom, she kept wandering back there to stand staring at the heavy satin and richly detailed lace, the delicate stitching and the tiny buttons on the sleeves and down the back.

  When the clerk from Starz called to apologize profusely for her mistake and to make arrangements for an employee to pick up the gown, Sara sank onto the mattress in a stifling wave of disappointment. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she had stared at the dress, vaguely aware that she had last-minute preparations to make for tonight’s party but oddly unconcerned by the passage of time. It was a curious sensation to be entranced by a few yards of fabric, and she couldn’t begin to explain her compulsion. Still, she sat and stared and sighed.

  Then the dress had twinkled—just like Dudley Do-Right’s smile—and inspiration had seized her. If West Ridgeman could see her in the dress, he would realize she was the love of his life and propose on the spot. It seemed a perfectly brilliant idea, and the next thing she knew, her ultra-chic, ultra-refined party dress was an unsophisticated lump on the floor and she was up to her neck in satin and lace.

  No sooner had she fastened the last tiny button, smoothed the lace scallops at her wrists, set the bridal veil haphazardly on her head and turned to look in the mirror than the spell burst like a bubble. She stared at her reflection, amazed at what she had done, astounded that she had thought putting on this gown was an intelligent idea.

  Not only was it an inexplicable error in judgment, but it wasn’t even a dress she would consider for her own wedding. She had always planned to float down the aisle in a pure white gown of raw silk and seed pearls, something contemporary and elegant and excruciatingly expensive.

  Certainly nothing as simple and old-fashioned as this gown. Nothing so reminiscent of blushing brides and bridegrooms. But despite her preconceptions, the wedding dress was vastly becoming, complementing her auburn hair with the color of candlelight, draping her slenderness in the soft whisk of satin.

  With uncharacteristic fussiness, she smoothed the front of the gown, liking the folds of the fabric against her skin, thinking the dress fit extremely well considering that it hadn’t been made for her. She adjusted the veil’s netting about her shoulders and tilted her head first one way and then the other, wondering who had worn this dress before and who would wear it in the future.

  It wouldn’t be her, of course. Contrary to her attack of brilliance, she knew that West Ridgeman would never go down on his knees for any woman in a dress like this one. She could well imagine his reaction if he ever saw her in it. Lovely dress, he’d say as he favored her with his trademark smile, half-amused, half-serious. A little underpowered for you, Sara, but lovely.

  Not that he or anyone else was going to see her wearing it, of course. She was taking it off right now, before her imagination fired off any more nutty ideas. Reaching for the back buttons, she caught a glint—a twinkle—in the mirror and turned to look at her reflection again. She had never had any patience for the fable of one man, one woman, one destiny. But something about this wedding dress made her think she might be wrong, made her wonder if perhaps there was a man meant especially for her, a love fated beyond her ability to command it.

  With that thought, a man’s reflection appeared in the mirror, and her heart broad jumped into her throat. She processed only the vaguest impressions—a gambler’s stance, a loner’s stare, a rogue’s grin—before she spun to face him, her fists raised, ready to fight—and was embarrassed to find she was completely alone. Another glance in the mirror confirmed a solitary image—hers—and she exhaled
slowly. There must have been something wrong with those fresh mushrooms she’d eaten at lunch. She’d call the grocery and complain. On second thought, she just wouldn’t buy any more. Explaining that she was seeing twinkles was not likely to…

  The back door opened with a familiar squeak and Sara froze. Maybe it hadn’t been a hallucination. Maybe she had seen a man’s reflection in the—

  “Sara? Are you home?”

  Her neighbor’s voice was a mixed blessing. She felt instant relief that she wasn’t about to face an intruder, but sincerely wished she wasn’t about to face Gypsy, either. “I’m in the bedroom,” she called, embarrassed to be caught clothed in her foolishness.

  “I came over to see if you have any…” Gypsy’s voice trailed off as she stopped short in the bedroom doorway. “Sorry, I must be in the wrong house. Unless…” She squinted, then waggled a finger. “Wait a minute. I recognize that frown. This is the right house and you are my neighbor, even if you are dressed funny.”

  “There’s something funny about this dress, all right, but I am not laughing.”

  “Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser.” Gypsy took a step closer. “Where did you get it?”

  “Don’t ask.” Sara took off the veil and tossed it onto the bed. “It’s a long story and I’m not proud of it. If you’ll just help me get out of this dress, I’ll be your friend forever.”

  “You’ll be my friend forever, anyway. I want to hear the story. Every sordid word.” Gypsy stepped over the bridal train and into the reflection in the dresser mirror. Her tummy protruded like a beach ball tucked under the picnic checks of her maternity blouse. “Confession is good for the soul, so spill your guts.”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “All the better. Start at the very beginning and don’t stop until I know every humiliating detail.”

  Sara shook her head at their Mutt and Jeff reflections, Gypsy, short and round with pregnancy, with her Kewpie doll haircut and her cheerleader smile, next to Sara, tall and sleek, with her auburn feather cut and unrevealing mouth. “Jason was supposed to pick up Alicia Randolph’s wedding gown from the dry cleaners. This is what he brought home, instead.”

  “For a nineteen-year-old male, that was probably an honest mistake.”

  “Considering the cute and curvy seventeen-year-old female who works there during the summers, it probably was. However, if either one of them had paid the slightest attention, it would not have happened.”

  “It might have. You can’t blame Jason for being young and irresistible to the opposite sex. It’s the law of the jungle.”

  “Which somehow translates into a problem for me.”

  “Well, you can’t tell me Jason made you put on this dress.”

  Embarrassing, but true. “No, that was the Gunnerson law of stupidity and I have to take full responsibility for it. I also have to get out of this dress. The owner of Starz called a little while ago. Apparently, someone came in to pick up this dress shortly after Jason left, and the mistake was discovered. They are sending someone to get this gown. They offered to drop off Alicia’s dress at the same time, but I told them I’d pick it up in the morning. No sense in taking the chance of another mix-up.”

  “I guess Jason won’t be making any more deliveries for At Your Service. At least, not for a while.”

  “He may have quit, for all I know. He was pretty angry when he left. I chewed him out for not being more responsible.”

  “You’re awfully hard on him, Sara. He’s just a kid.”

  “When I was his age, I worked two part-time jobs and carried seventeen hours a semester.”

  “Yes, and when you die, he will have that engraved on your tombstone. Give him a break. Just because he isn’t as responsible or ambitious as you—”

  “Period. He isn’t ambitious, period.” Sara took a deep breath, placed her hands on her waist and turned so that Gypsy could reach the back buttons. “I can’t afford to worry about my brother tonight. I’ve got to be at West’s house by six. You know how important tonight is for me. What time is it, anyway?”

  “About five, I think.” Gypsy tugged on the bodice. “Gee, these are tiny buttons. Now, tell me how you ended up in this dress and who buttoned you into it?”

  Sara frowned in the mirror. “I buttoned it,” she said. “It was easy.”

  “Right. Okay, we’ll come back to that. What made you decide to put it on in the first place? Don’t get me wrong, you look beautiful in the gown, but normally you wouldn’t look twice at anything so…romantic.”

  “I don’t understand it, either. Jason carried it into the house and something happened to me. It was like I was hypnotized or something.”

  “You?”

  “I know it sounds unlikely, but I can’t explain it any other way. The dress twinkled at me and the next thing I knew, I was wearing it.”

  Gypsy’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “Twinkled?”

  “All right, so I imagined that part. Maybe I even imagined that I put on the wedding gown.”

  “Nope. You’re in it and I’m having a heck of a time trying to get you out of it. These are the tiniest button loops I have ever seen. Now, go back and start where the dress twinkled at you.”

  “Forget I said that.”

  “Not a chance. You are the least fanciful person I know, and if you say you were hypnotized by a dress, then I believe you.”

  “Well, I don’t believe it. I cannot believe I am actually wearing this dress, either. Of all days to go completely insane…”

  “Obviously, it’s a sign. You’re not supposed to marry West Ridgeman.”

  “Don’t start that, Gyps,” Sara warned. “Besides, he hasn’t asked me, yet.”

  “Then there’s still time to meet someone else, fall insanely in love and live happily ever after.”

  Laughter percolated in her throat. “That’s about as likely as Kevin agreeing to any of the names you’ve picked out for the baby.”

  Gypsy stopped fumbling with the buttons. “It could happen.”

  “He’s too sensible to call his child Sprite, and I’m too sensible to fall insanely in love with any man. Besides, West is everything I want in a husband. He’s almost as ambitious as I am. He graduated from Harvard. He’s successful, well-established in his career, well-respected—”

  “Well-invested, well-insured and well-funded. I know this routine by heart.”

  Sara’s defenses went into overdrive. “You know how mad I get when you say that. And you know it isn’t true. Refusing to go out with men who are no match for me in drive and ambition does not make me mercenary. And I fail to see how refusing to go out with West because he is financially secure could make me a better person.”

  “You’re right. However, you could, in good conscience, refuse to go out with him because he’s boring and shallow.”

  “He is not. You don’t know him like I do, Gyps. He’s extremely intelligent and that sometimes makes people uncomfortable, but—”

  “Enough already.” Gypsy surrendered with both hands in the air. “I’m going for a Popsicle. Want one?”

  “Can’t you wait until after you get the buttons undone?”

  “If I could control these cravings, Kevin wouldn’t have bought two freezers and a twenty-four-foot meat locker. Besides, I’m not making any headway with these buttons, anyway. You may have to wear the wedding gown to the reception.” She waddled to the doorway and down the hall, talking all the way. “Maybe West will be overcome with passion and propose on the spot.”

  Sara was startled to hear her own harebrained idea repeated aloud. It seemed an odd coincidence. On the other hand, everything seemed odd at the moment. “How am I supposed to get out of this dress?” she called.

  “I’m just going to the kitchen. I know I’m not exactly Speedy Gonzalez, but I’ll be back before you turn into an old maid.”

  Pressing her lips together in determination, Sara reached for the buttons at the back of the dress. She was going to get out of this ivory nightmare one wa
y or another. The phone rang, spurring her motivation to get out of the bridal gown and into her own clothes. “Answer that, will you, Gyps?” she yelled down the hall.

  “Got it,” Gypsy yelled, and the phone stopped short on another ring.

  The button loops proved obstinately tight, so Sara turned her attention to the sleeves. But even there, where she could coordinate her eye-hand movements, she met with no success. The buttons and loops would not come apart. Frustration rose and quickly doubled, hampering her efforts even more. Tonight’s party was important to her, both personally and professionally. She didn’t have time to fritter away trying to get out of a dress she should never have gotten into in the first place. Hypnotized by a wedding gown. That had to be the most ridiculous thought ever to sprout in her excessively practical brain.

  She took a deep breath and renewed her attack on the buttons. In less than an hour, she would be with West. And she would not be wearing this dress, either. Bending down, she retrieved the black silk dress she had so carelessly discarded and laid it carefully on the bed. It had cost a king’s ransom and could never be described as underpowered. She had bought it with West in mind—although she hadn’t met him at the time—and it had been hanging at the back of her closet for over a year. But tonight was the debut. And if ever there was a dress to evoke a proposal of marriage…

  “You haven’t made much headway.” Gypsy appeared in the doorway, a red Popsicle in her hand, her lips stained berry bright.

  “I can’t understand this. It was so easy to get into.” The button battle took on the status of a personal grudge, and getting out of the dress became tantamount, somehow, to being the master of her own fate. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Somebody Jackson.” Gypsy licked a drip from the bottom of the Popsicle. “He has the Bubonic plague or something.”