When Caroline turned from her shopping booty and held up the dress she’d selected, my jaw dropped and I sank into the nearest chair.
“It’s beautiful,” I stammered through my shock.
The simple sleeveless dress in silk the pale coral of a Florida sunset was stunning, something I’d have chosen myself, if I could have afforded it.
Caroline flashed a self-satisfied smirk. “I thought you’d like it. It’s very you, Margaret, no-nonsense but obvious quality. And that’s not all.”
From the deep dress box, she pulled a matching coat with a mandarin collar.
I loved it, but I was still without words.
“Now,” she said, “the shoes.”
I winced, picturing another pair of torturous stilettos like the last pair she’d had me buy. Those must have been designed by a desperate podiatrist hoping to drum up business. To my relief, she pulled out a pair of pumps in Italian leather the same pale coral as the dress—with two-inch heels.
“I had them dyed to match,” Caroline said.
“They’re perfect.” My eyes were tearing up again. My stylish sister wouldn’t be caught dead in such shoes, but she’d bought me exactly what I’d wanted.
“Try them on,” she said. “No, wait. I forgot the veil.”
“Veil?” Her selections had been too perfect. I should have known there would be a catch. “I can’t wear a veil, not with this outfit.”
She reached for a hatbox. “It’s not really a veil. Remember the sixties? We used to call them whimsies. I had a milliner whip this up.” After digging through more tissue paper, she extracted a tiny wisp of tulle in pale coral, shaped to fit loosely over my hair like a large cloche and accented with several tiny silk bows that matched the dress. “What do you think?”
I sprang from the chair and hugged Caroline, who barely managed to save the whimsy from my crushing embrace. “Everything is too beautiful. How can I thank you?”
I’d sold my sister short and was suffering pangs of guilt for my lowered expectations.
Caroline returned my hug, then released me. “Just be happy, Margaret. You deserve it.” She cleared her throat of the huskiness that had colored her words. “Now, go try it all on. Let’s see if everything fits.”
WE GATHERED AT OUR house the evening of the ceremony, and I appreciated Caroline’s gift even more when I saw the expression on Bill’s face when he first glimpsed me. My knees went weak at the love in his eyes, and I feared for an instant I might have to be married sitting down.
The other guests had already arrived when Hunt, Caroline and I pulled up in the Town Car. Our house was gleaming and awash with light. Bill had strung strands of white twinkle lights in the weeping elm on the patio where the ceremony would take place. Delicious aromas emanated from the kitchen, informing me that Estelle, bless her, had done much more than bake the fabulous three-tiered cake that centered the dining table. It was topped with a miniature nosegay of ivory-colored roses, the same hue as the bouquet Bill handed me.
My husband-to-be was not only thoughtful, but a diplomat, too. He’d provided corsages for all the women, making certain Mother’s was the biggest and most elaborate. Even little Jessica had a tiny wrist corsage. Hunt and Adler wore boutonnieres that matched the one in the lapel of Bill’s navy blue suit.
Roger, who loved people almost as much as food, wandered from guest to guest, sniffing shoes and ankles and submitting to pats and praises. I tensed when I saw him approach Mother, who didn’t like dogs, but Estelle saved the day. For the rest of the evening, whenever Roger neared Mother, Estelle snagged a cheese straw from the plate on the dining table and diverted Roger’s attention with the tasty treat. Soon, he refused to move farther than arm’s length from Estelle, his new best friend.
The only unpleasant surprise was the photographer Mother had hired to document the proceedings. Bill thanked Mother for her thoughtfulness, then drew the photographer aside and apparently threatened him with bodily harm if his picture-taking became the least intrusive, because the poor guy, in spite of glaring looks from Mother, remained discreetly in the background.
The sun was setting, turning the western sky the same shade as my wedding dress, when we gathered on the patio for the brief ceremony. Darcy was more nervous than either the bride or groom. With two decades of love, friendship and knowledge of each other’s qualities and foibles, Bill and I had faith in the strength of our relationship. I’d debated long and hard over this decision and, as Bill slipped the plain yellow gold band on my finger, I reveled in the rightness of it.
Adler was first to claim the right to kiss the bride. “Be happy, Maggie,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re a special lady, and Bill’s a lucky guy.”
I hugged my former partner. “I’m the lucky one.”
HOURS LATER, WHEN the guests had left, Bill and I sat together on the sofa in the living room and finished the last of the champagne. Bill had stripped off his jacket and loosened his tie. I’d shed whimsy, duster and shoes and propped my stockinged feet on the coffee table. Roger curled next to me, sleepy and sated with cheese straws.
“I thought the evening went well,” Bill said.
I nodded. “In spite of the unexpected photographer.”
“We’ll be glad later to have the pictorial record.”
“Mother even behaved herself,” I said. “No disparaging remarks about our house or our ceremony.”
“It got a little dicey when she started planning the fancy reception at the club,” Bill said.
I smiled at my new husband. “But you handled her brilliantly. I didn’t know we were planning an imminent around-the-world cruise that will take months. I thought we were going to the Caribbean for a few weeks on the Ten-Ninety-Eight.”
“Did I forget to tell you?” His blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
“And I thought I was marrying an honest man.”
“We’ll start out around the world, but we’ll come home when we’re ready, even if we go only as far as the Caribbean. If my fib gives us a chance to enjoy our newly married status without Priscilla’s machinations, so much the better.”
I leaned into the circle of his embrace, happy and content. “I’m ready for bed.”
“Tired?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not a bit. In fact, I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink tonight.”
Bill set aside his champagne flute, stood, scooped me into his arms and carried me to the bedroom. Our bedroom.
“Good thing, then,” he said with a grin filled with love and promise, “that I’m here to keep you company.”
I snuggled against his shoulder and tightened my arms around his neck. “We’re in this together now, for the long haul.”
“Hallelujah,” Bill said with a laugh, and kicked the bedroom door shut behind us.
STORM SEASON
copyright © 2007 by Charlotte H. Douglas
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0365-9
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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