She considered an outright lie. Instead, though, she just nodded. “I think so.”
Audrey Regan had become a bit of a phenomenon since taking her mad design skills to the renowned house of Riley Eastwood last year. She’d left New York and settled in the Atlanta area to be closer to her friend Carly, but she hadn’t been in town much since Thanksgiving, when Carly’s military husband returned from the Middle East. In February, she debuted on a London runway with Riley’s grand finale piece, a spectacular couture gown to announce House of Eastwood’s new plus-size label.
Emma knew how fortunate she’d been when Audrey agreed to design her wedding dress. She hadn’t exactly been great with the planning details—flowers, music, and, of all things, the elusive wedding cake!—but Emma had a clear picture of how she wanted to look in her gown. And Audrey Regan was just enough of a genius to take the picture out of her head and sketch it into reality.
Kat had phoned from the airport to say they were on the way to the hotel, and Emma made every attempt not to hover over the entrance like a nervous bride. Instead, she’d been casually pacing between the vicinity of the door and the front desk for the last fifteen minutes.
A ruckus at the desk dragged her attention to Mrs. Montague, the mother of next Saturday night’s bride with the seven-tier lemon-filled cake. The woman inched her way toward the manager as she pinched the ear of a young girl and pulled her along.
“Let go!” the child cried, wincing and flailing her arms at the woman in slaps that never quite hit their target. “Let go of me!”
“I caught this ragamuffin pawing through the leftovers on our room service cart,” Mrs. Montague explained as Emma joined them at the desk.
“Let go of my eeeeeear,” the girl squealed as she wriggled and twisted in a jagged circle until she managed to escape the woman’s grip. “Dang!” she groaned, rubbing her ear.
Glaring at the child, Mrs. Montague spoke in quiet, unmistakable syllables. “I hope someone will call her parents before she gets into some real trouble.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” the girl said. “It smelled good and I couldn’t help myself.”
“Well, someone should have taught you to try harder.”
“I’m . . . sorrrry.” It almost seemed like she’d choked on the word. “I won’t do it again.”
“See that you don’t.” The woman shook her head at Emma before glancing at the front desk manager. “You’ll call her parents, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Montague adjusted her large designer handbag and headed off toward the front door, her high heels clicking on the tile floor, the child she left behind doing a cartoonish impression of her as she went.
“Hey,” Emma said sharply, and the girl stopped in her tracks. “What were you doing going through the room service cart?”
“You answered your own question,” she snapped, pushing a mass of tight, reddish-brown curls away from her face. Emma noticed a smear of what looked like barbecue sauce or ketchup on the side of her chin.
“Don’t be smart,” she said as she wiped it away. “What’s your name?”
“You first,” the girl snarled, backing up.
“Emma Rae Travis.”
“You work in this dump?”
Emma glanced at the manager before she replied, “I’m the baker. Now it’s your turn. What’s your name?”
“Hildie.”
“Hildie. That’s pretty.”
“It’s stupid. Sounds like an old southern fart.”
Emma couldn’t help herself, and she popped with laughter. “Hildie what?”
“Just Hildie.”
“And how old are you, Just Hildie?”
“How old are you?”
Emma narrowed her eyes. “I’m guessing you’re, what, around ten?”
“Eleven!” she corrected.
“All right. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me, eleven year-old Just Hildie, what room are you in, and where are your parents?”
“Well . . . I . . .”
“Emma!”
She pivoted toward the call and saw Audrey make her way into the lobby behind Kat, who waved her arm and grinned from one ear to the other. Tomás, one of the day shift bellmen, pushed a loaded brass cart behind them.
“Hey!” the manager called, and when Emma turned back around, Hildie had disappeared around the corner and up the stairs.
“Find out who her parents are,” Emma told him before hurrying across the lobby to greet her friends.
The closer she got to her, the more profoundly Emma felt the impact of Audrey’s beauty. With her platinum blond hair, voluptuous curves, and catlike eyes, she looked like an updated version of a 1940s pinup girl. And Kat, Audrey’s former assistant, looked like a fresh-faced model in an ad for peach shampoo or some great new minty toothpaste.
“Look at the two of you!” Emma exclaimed as they exchanged embraces. “Together again, and walking through the doors of The Tanglewood Inn.”
“It’s so good to be back,” Kat said with a wide grin. “And wait until you see your dress!”
Audrey beamed, her full red lips stretched out into a perfect smile. “Let us get checked in and you can come up to the room for a fitting.”
“That works!” Emma replied. “Half an hour?”
“Perfect.”
Kat followed Audrey toward the desk, then stopped abruptly and turned around. “Emma, is Fee in the kitchen?”
“She is. I’ll bring her with me.”
“Great!” Kat wrinkled her nose and shot Emma a crooked grin. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“You too.”
“Your wedding invitations are here,” Sherilyn told Jackson as she poked her head through the door. “Would you like to peek, or shall we wait for Emma Rae?”
She looked harried as she rushed through the door with a small cardboard box under one arm, her infant child cradled across her in a strange sideways sack. She wore a floor-length paisley dress, her hair was knotted into something slightly resembling a ponytail, and a large quilted diaper bag was slung over her shoulder.
“Emma is having her dress fitting at the moment,” he replied with a grin. “She may not come up for air until who-knows-when. Let’s have a look.”
“Audrey and Kat are here? Why didn’t she call me?” she exclaimed as she thrust the box toward him. “Here, can you just pull one of those out so I can show it to her? What room is Audrey in? Do you know? Oh, never mind, I’ll call Kat’s cell.”
Jackson chuckled as he pulled out one of the invitations from the top of the box and handed it to her.
“I hope you like them,” she called over her shoulder as she scurried out the door.
Ivory linen set against a black card border held the raised black letters inviting their chosen few guests to join them in celebrating their nuptials. A silk ribbon wrapped cleanly around the invitation, tied in a bow.
“Pale orchid” was the label Emma had given the light purple ribbon when she’d presented the option to him. “Kind of elegant, very classic. This one’s my favorite.”
She’d gone on about something having to do with hydrangeas and centerpieces, but he’d zoned out a little on the rest of it. Frankly, she’d sounded more like Sherilyn than his Emma.
“Then pale orchid it is!” he declared when she’d finished.
It turned out to be a fine choice he realized as he looked at it, and his stomach squeezed a little as he traced the glossy raised letters of their names on the card.
Finally. Emma will be my bride.
Jackson felt as if he’d been waiting a lifetime to see those two names sharing the same invitation card. He asked himself why he’d waited so long.
Desiree flickered across his mind with a sweet, gentle smile, and his stomach squeezed again. She’d looked so beautiful on their wedding day, like a princess in a ball gown, a strand of her grandmother’s pearls around her neck, and a long veil that brushed the floor. He struggled to remember what their inv
itations had looked like, but he couldn’t quite nail down the image. It felt a little disloyal for a moment before he realized Desiree wouldn’t care in the least whether he remembered the invitations or the flowers or the cake, as long as he remembered her. And Jackson did.
He remembered every curve of her face, every freckle on her arms, every single one of her always-readable expressions; and as he mentally browsed over each memory, he landed on what Emma had promised him early on in their romance.
“There’s room enough for all three of us in this relationship, Jackson. There’s you and me, and there’s your memory of your late wife. You don’t have to choose.”
He’d already known he loved her by then. He just hadn’t known quite how much.
You’d actually like her, Desi. If you’d have met somewhere, you might have been friends.
Warmth surged through Jackson, and he closed his tired eyes for a minute and leaned back until his desk chair creaked. He felt pretty certain that she’d have encouraged him to move on without her. But he couldn’t help wondering about something else . . . hoping that Desiree would understand . . .
Tips for Choosing the Best
Wedding Invitations
It used to be that all wedding invitations were formal:
white or ivory paper with raised black lettering.
Guests wore formal attire, such as evening gowns
and tuxedos.
Today, however, the wedding invitation is a reflection
of the bride and groom’s personal style
as well as the theme, tone, and location of their wedding.
• The invitation should match the tone or theme
chosen for the wedding.
• Today’s wedding invitations can include such personal
choices as dried flowers, recycled papers, and gilt edges.
• Traditional and formal weddings usually require a
more formal invitation with engraved lettering,
a technique that raises the letters slightly.
• For a more casual invitation, a professional portrait
of the bride and groom can be a nice touch to make
a personal statement, and it is a particularly nice touch
for those invitations going to out-of-town recipients who
will likely not be able to attend the wedding.
• The wording of the invitation may also vary;
however, the name of the hosts should always be
included in addition to the date, time, and location.
• When cost is a priority, some lovely invitations can be
created with a little imagination and a good-quality printer.
There are many templates available, and a fine stationery
store will offer everything from cardstock to
linen papers and vellum overlays.
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Pleated sweetheart bodice.
Hand-embroidered and beaded cap sleeves.
Side-draped cascades of chiffon.
A two-inch belt of rhinestones circling a natural waist.
Twenty rhinestone buttons down the back.
A-line silhouette with draped chapel-length train.
Those were the notes Audrey had scribbled while they conferenced about Emma’s gown. A week later, she’d included them in the e-mail to Emma with a jpg of the sketch attached. She had meticulously included every idea Emma had somehow managed to express, times ten. And now—seeing the end result before her—Emma could hardly breathe.
“Oh my!”
“Yes?” Audrey asked eagerly.
“Oh . . . Audrey . . .”
“I think that’s a yes,” Kat added. “Isn’t it?”
“Well, come on. Don’t keep us in suspense,” Fee declared.
“It’s beyond—” That was all she could manage.
Emma sank to the edge of the king-sized bed, both hands over her heart, trying to breathe as she gazed at the dress form angled toward her. Every detail of the gown came together to stop her heart, every rhinestone on the belt perfectly placed, every pearl and bead on the delicate cap sleeves shimmering. Even the way the hem sat arranged on the floor brought a mist of emotion to her eyes and a lump to her throat that kept her from speaking.
“It’s a gorgeous dress,” Kat said with a sigh as she dropped to the bed beside Emma.
“Exquisite,” Emma managed.
The four of them lined up along the foot of the bed, gazing at the gown as if it had descended from a cloud, affecting the mood of the room full of women the way only a wedding dress could.
A sudden bang-bang-bang against the door drew Kat to her feet, and she hurried to answer Sherilyn’s frantic calls from the corridor.
“Let me in! Don’t you dare leave me out of this!”
Emma couldn’t manage to look away from the gown as Sherilyn blew into the room. But when Sherilyn gasped and the others fell eerily silent, she looked up to find her friend standing in the middle of the room, her baby strapped across her chest, bulging diaper bag flung over her shoulder, and her glassy eyes trained on the dress before them.
“Is that it?” she slowly asked. Fee’s dry glance at her elicited a further reply: “Oh. Well, of course it is. It’s . . . it’s . . . exquisite!”
“Isn’t it?” Emma said.
Sherilyn sat down next to Emma on the bed, cradling the tiny pink bundle in her arms.
“Hi, Isabel,” Emma cooed at the baby. “Did you see my wedding dress? Isn’t it beautiful?” Looking up at Sherilyn, she asked, “Can I hold her?”
Sherilyn nodded absentmindedly, pulling a bottle of antiseptic gel from the bag and handing it to Emma without glancing away from the gown.
Emma squirted out a dollop of gel and rubbed her hands together as Sherilyn exclaimed, “Oooh!” She plucked something else from the front flap of the diaper bag and waved it at Emma.
“The invitations arrived!”
“They did, and I think they’re really lovely, Em.”
Emma wiped her hands again before she gingerly accepted the invitation. Tracing the glossy, raised letters of Jackson’s name with her index finger, she grinned. “They’re perfect.”
“Let’s see,” Fee said, and she pulled the card from Emma’s hand. “Nice.”
“And how’s the wedding cake project coming along?” Sherilyn asked her.
Emma shrugged. “I got another one down on paper last night. But . . . I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe it could be the one.”
“That’s what she said about the last one,” Fee commented, but Emma’s attention was fixed on the gown again.
Reaching across Sherilyn, she grabbed Audrey’s hand and gave it a playful shake. “And you! You’re a genius,” she said, and Audrey smiled in reply. “No, I mean it. You’re an absolute genius. I may be a little lost in getting to my wedding cake, but this dress is a touchdown. It’s what I pictured in my head, and so much more. The rhinestone buttons . . . the detailing on the sleeves . . . It’s genius, Audrey. How can I ever thank you?”
“You can marry that fabulous man of yours and live a happy life. But before you do that, why don’t we do a fitting?”
“Oh!” Emma squealed, and Sherilyn shushed her, pointing down at Isabel.
“I forgot I get to try it on,” Emma whispered, tugging off her blouse before she even hit her feet. “I can’t wait to try it on!”
From the time that he’d opened the place, Jackson had taken to enjoying his mid-morning coffee at this one particular table in the restaurant whenever he could manage it. He’d actually preferred it there before the hotel had officially opened because the tables around him sat unoccupied back then, but he wouldn’t trade the steady stream of patrons for all of the peaceful coffee experiences on earth. The Tanglewood had evolved from a questionable venture in those early days into the solid success that it was now, all thanks to those customers who churned through the doors day after day.
Behind him, a family of five chatted softly over their breakfasts, and a y
oung businessman sipped coffee in the corner. Chiffon-filtered streams of sunlight pointed to the floor beside the man as he exchanged pleasantries with his waitress.
Jackson poured the last drops from the pot into his cup as rubber-soled shoes padded their way toward him, and he looked up as they came to a muffled halt next to his table. The warm and familiar smile of Emma’s Aunt Sophie greeted him, and he found himself remembering that first morning when he’d looked up at her from that very spot in the restaurant to find that she wore a mint-green evening gown, long white gloves and—of all things!—a tiara.
“What is your name?” she’d asked him, and less than three minutes later, Jackson had fallen a little bit in love as she quoted Scripture to him from the Book of Isaiah, promising him that whatever situation had him so engrossed in his own thoughts was sure to look up very soon.
“Good morning, Jackson,” she said to him now, as she smoothed back her halo of beautiful silver hair with both hands. “Am I interrupting you?”
“I think that’s what you asked me the very first time you walked through those doors, Sophie. You asked if you were interrupting me.”
“Did I?”
“And you were dressed in green, like you were going to a ball at the palace.”
Sophie smiled. “I must have looked happy. Was I happy, Jackson?”
“You always seem happy to me,” he remarked. “It’s one of the things I love most about you.”
He took a final draw from his cup and set it down on the table.
“How about you?” she asked, and Jackson leaned back against the chair. “Are you happy? Because you look unusually burdened this morning, dear.”
“I’m just in the process of making a business decision,” he explained with a smile.
“Then I won’t keep you from it,” she replied, turning on her heel and heading toward the door.
“Wait, Sophie. Are you here alone?”
“I came with Avery. And she’s . . . she’s . . .”
Jackson watched her closely for a moment, noticing the spark of confusion that flashed in her bluish eyes as they darted about the restaurant.
Always the Baker, Finally the Bride Page 6