Runaway Bridesmaid

by Karen Templeton

  Since Jennifer was busy flicking through the paltry selection in her closet, Sarah couldn’t hear what she assumed was a snide reply. Suddenly, her sister twirled around with a peach crepe shirtwaist clutched triumphantly in her hands.

  “What’s wrong with this?”

  “I’d look like Aunt Ida.”

  “Like you don’t in that?”

  She had a point.

  “Humor me.” Jennifer thrust out the dress. “Try it on.”

  Sarah had acquired the dress under protest, right after Katey’s birth. Aunt Ida had insisted she needed to buy something with a waist in it to make her feel skinny again. To shut the garrulous woman up, she’d bought the first thing her aunt hadn’t made a face at, worn it once, then ignored its presence in her closet ever since. It was the last thing she felt like wearing tonight, but, once again to shut someone up, she put it on.

  “Now, this has promise,” Jennifer said. “Look…blouse it a little, like this…” She poufed out the bodice over the belt. “That brings the skirt up a little higher and makes the slit sexier….”

  “I’m not doing sexy, Jen.”

  “Yes, you are. Be quiet. Okay, now…” She undid the top three buttons and hitched up the collar so that it framed the back of Sarah’s neck. Jennifer twisted around and looked in the mirror at Sarah’s reflection, then pulled her mouth into an appreciative smirk. “So, what do you think? And negative answers are not acceptable.”

  “It’s…not bad,” Sarah admitted, studying her reflection.

  “Are you kidding? You rock. Oh—hold on…I’ll be back in a sec.”

  She dashed out, returned with a set of plain oversized pearl earrings.

  “I’ve never seen you wear these,” Sarah said, clipping them on.

  “I bought ’em on impulse about a year ago. But they’re too understated.”

  True, compared with the two-inch-wide bright red enameled flowers with the rhinestone centers currently positioned on either side of her sister’s face. In any case, the pearl earrings worked quite nicely with both Sarah’s square jaw and the outfit, which she had to admit was better than the black.

  Even if, as she’d said, the black was better suited to her lugubrious mood.

  “Jennifer!” Vivian called up the stairs. “Lance is here, honey.”

  “Be right there,” Jennifer yelled back, then gave Sarah a hug. “You look wonderful,” she said with a giggle. “Knock ’em dead.” Then, clearly pleased with her fairy godmother work, Jennifer floated out of the room.

  Knock ’em dead? Oh, sure. The way Sarah’s stomach felt at the moment, the only one likely to be dead by the end of the evening was she.

  Oh, how she dreaded this dinner, having to sit next to Dean, because she didn’t know what to do. She was hopeless at man-woman games, having never had either the need or the inclination to play them. She needed—wanted—to tell him about Katey, but now was more afraid than ever what his reaction might be. Of course he’d be shocked. Probably angry. Probably?

  What if he really couldn’t forgive her? One hand pressed into her jittery stomach: it just about killed her to think that…that—she shut her eyes, admitted to herself the one thing she’d refused to admit for the past week—that they might be this close to getting back together….

  Talk about the past catching up with you.

  Funny, how they’d both acted from what they thought were noble motives, like some turn-of-the-century O’Henry story. He didn’t want to trap her; she then didn’t want to trap him. And here, all along, they would have both been perfectly happy being “trapped.” Things wouldn’t have been easy, God knows, but they would have worked it out, somehow. Just like they’d planned to all along.

  But they hadn’t. And now there was one holy mess to clean up. And, at the moment, a wedding rehearsal and dinner to get through.

  “Sarah Louise? Come on, honey, or we’ll be late.”

  She sighed so loudly, Balthasar actually looked concerned.

  Only Sarah could look that good in that dress.

  Criminy—it looked like something his aunt would wear. To church. On Sarah, however, church was the last thing that came to mind. She looked like a rose. An incredibly sexy rose.

  A rose he was having an increasingly difficult time ignoring.

  He meant what he’d said to Jennifer, that Sarah would have to be the one to make the next move. And if she really didn’t want to work things out…well, that was that, wasn’t it?

  But if she did, she’d have to tell him. Plainly, unequivocally, so there was no doubt. Which meant he’d just have to stay out of her way a little while longer. A plan that would have been fine, in theory, had dear, darling Jennifer not insisted they sit next to each other at dinner. So here he sat next to this fragrant rose of a woman who made his blood simmer, the tension between them probably causing interference on televisions within a five-mile radius.

  Jennifer threw him an occasional nasty look, shifting her eyes in her sister’s direction as if to say “What are you waiting for?” And Vivian, too, was doling out her fair share of unspoken censure, although at least her annoyance seemed to be equally divided between them.

  He couldn’t see Sarah’s face, of course, but he could tell by her silence—as well as her uncharacteristic lack of appetite—that she was probably fighting for control. She went through the motions for probably a half an hour, then suddenly tucked her napkin underneath her plate and left the table. And, just as suddenly, he didn’t give a damn about fish or bait or sisters-in-law or any of it.

  He found her outside, on a deck overlooking the lake. He didn’t ask, he didn’t question, he didn’t hesitate. He just swept her into his arms and held on tight, as if they would both die if he let go.

  Sarah knew he would follow her. She would have been even more upset if he hadn’t. And didn’t that make a whole lot of sense?

  At that moment, she could have no more resisted being drawn into his embrace than she could have gone up two bra sizes. She burst into tears, clinging to the lapels of his sport jacket as hard as he was clinging to her.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked softly, stroking her hair.

  “D-don’t know about you,” she hiccuped, “but I’m h-having a damn g-good cry.”

  He laughed and hugged her more closely for a second, then held her slightly away so he could look into her face. Terrific. Even the dusky light wasn’t going to camouflage puffy eyelids and a swollen top lip. Yet he smiled for her as if she were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

  He wiped away her tears with his fingertips, those deep green eyes as soothing as a sauna. And just as hot. “Your call,” he whispered, his breath caressing her face. “What do we do now?”

  She sniffled, needing to joke. Needing to diffuse the heat that was threatening a serious brain meltdown. “Find me a tissue, that’s what.”

  “That’s my girl,” Dean said with a lopsided smile—damn that lopsided smile!—pulling out a clean handkerchief from his back pocket. “Miss Pragmatic.”

  Sarah took the soft cloth, trying not to let their fingers touch. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, wiped her eyes again. Dean led them over to a bench apart from the restaurant where they were relatively alone and settled both of them on it, his arm protectively draped around her shoulders.

  It was her move. Her turn. And possibly the only chance she’d have.

  “I…understand now why you left me,” she said in a small voice.

  His fingers tightened around her shoulder. Just slightly. “You do.”

  She nodded and continued in a rush, “Now, I don’t think that was the smartest decision you’ve ever made, and I don’t know, yet, if I can ever fully forgive you. But I know your motives were unselfish.” She offered a tremulous smile. “Misguided, maybe, but unselfish.”

  She saw hope stir in those kind, sweet eyes, and she wanted to cry out. “Is this…something you can live with?” he asked, his voice soft as a baby’s kiss.

  Her fing
ers worried her old high school ring for several seconds before she nodded again, sharply. More words, more risk.

  The bench creaked slightly as he shifted his weight away from her.

  She studied him out of the corner of her eye. His thick lashes were lowered over eyes that weren’t seeing anything, she knew, as a vein pulsed in his temple, a puzzled half smile only fractionally relaxing his stiff jaw.

  “Okay…” He drew out the word, his brain obviously trying to churn through this as much as hers was. His fingers left her shoulder, worked their way up her neck. Much more dangerous territory, she decided, feeling her heart thunder in her chest. “Does this mean…we could maybe give this another shot?”

  Why couldn’t this be a simple answer?

  “That I don’t know about.”

  That was clearly not the answer he expected. Wanted.

  He tucked two fingers under her chin and tilted her face to his. “Then tell me why not.”

  But she couldn’t. She had to, but not now, she realized. Not when her sister—who didn’t know about Katey, either—was getting married tomorrow. She lowered her eyes, then looked back into his, knowing hers were blazing with fear. And need. And confusion.

  Just like his.

  He stroked her cheek, which brought a whimper, then touched his forehead to hers. His scent—so familiar, so arousing—swirled through her senses. “Sarah, honey—you can tell me anything. You know that. Just like you always could.”

  If only it were that simple.

  As long as she stayed mum, she could pretend there was hope. The minute she revealed the truth, however, it would be over. He’d said so himself, that he would never be able to forgive someone who’d lied the way he had to her. And her deception was so, so much worse. Would he even understand that her motives, like his, had been well-intentioned, that she simply hadn’t wanted to shackle him to something he wasn’t ready for?

  Shaking her head, she pulled away from him, the tears coming again.

  “Sarah—” Frustration viced his words. “What the hell are you so afraid of?”

  Of losing you…again.

  She just shook her head. Again. Then jumped off the bench and ran away.

  Again.

  Dean stared after her for several seconds, then went back inside, knowing he wouldn’t find Sarah, not at all sure what he’d do or say if he did. He felt like a not-too-bright dog who knows he’s buried a bone somewhere in the backyard but can’t remember where, so he has to dig up the whole dang place until he finds it.

  Of course, the process is just a bit more difficult if the dog’s trying to dig up some other dog’s bone.

  He noticed most of the wedding party had dispersed, some dancing, having drifted outside to the deck. Vivian, however, was still at the table, sipping her wine, lost in thought.

  Ah. Vivian.

  He walked up and tapped her on the shoulder, making her jerk her hand to her chest. “Got a minute?” he said with a smile he’d dredged up from somewhere. “We need to talk.”

  “Now.”

  The breeze off the lake toyed with the hem of Vivian’s shapeless dark blue dress as she sat on the bench where he and Sarah had just been. Dean stood in front of her, his arms crossed, his temper just barely in check. “I want to know right now what is going on here. Something has Sarah scared out of her wits. Since she won’t tell me about it, I figured you probably could.”

  Vivian darted a glance in his direction, then folded her arms as well. “You figured wrong.”

  He narrowed his eyes, the muscles at the sides of his head threatening rebellion. “What? That you can’t tell me? Or you won’t?”

  Cornered. That’s how she looked. Her mouth was still locked into a stubborn set that would have taken a jackhammer to prise apart, but her eyes told another story entirely. One he’d very much like to hear.

  “It’s not up to me—” she started.

  “I knew it! So there is a problem.”

  Vivian propelled herself up from the bench and walked a few feet away, her low-heeled black patent pumps hammering against the wooden surface of the deck. The hammering stopped, and she just stood still, staring out at the lake. When she finally faced him again, her expression told him nothing. A puff of air lifted a hank of her graying hair and draped it across her broad face; she gave it a cursory swipe back into its chignon. “You love her?”

  And there it was, unwrapped and polished and laid out, gleaming and real, in front of him. Not guilt, or regret, or even concern, but the one thing, the only thing, he suddenly realized he’d ever felt for Sarah Louise Whitehouse from the time he was old enough to even have an inkling of what the word meant.

  “God, Viv—you know I do.”

  “Then hang on to that,” she said with a curt nod, pushing back the hair again. “Hang on to that like you were a drowning man and that was the only inner tube in the whole ever-lovin’ ocean.”

  With that, she headed back to the restaurant.

  “That’s it?”

  She turned back to him, her head cocked, contemplating. Then she shrugged. “You’ll just have to wait until Sarah’s ready to talk,” she said, not unkindly. “Neither you nor I nor anyone else can speed that up.” A resigned smile curved her lips slightly upward, turning her cheeks into balloons. “And then…” Her laugh sounded more like a sigh. “I just hope you’re ready.”

  Another shrug, then she disappeared inside. Dean stood in the middle of the deck, his face muscles pulled so taut he felt as if his skin didn’t fit.

  Wait for what? Be ready for what? What could Sarah possibly have to tell him that could possibly alter the way he felt about her?

  And when, when, would he find out what that was?

  Chapter 11

  Jennifer could not have asked for a prettier wedding day, Sarah thought, her bedroom curtain tucked in the crook of her fingers. It had rained after midnight, leaving the air cool and dry, the postcard-blue sky dotted here and there with poufs of clouds that looked like cute little lamby-pies.

  The bride had already been in and out of Sarah’s room ten times that morning, although Sarah couldn’t have pinpointed an actual reason for any of the visits. Jennifer had zipped past exuberant to wired at least two hours ago. Under other circumstances, Sarah would have been buzzing right along with her. As it was, she was doing well to manage civil.

  Another sleepless night. Lord, she was getting tired of those, tired of flopping around on her bed and untangling herself from the sheets every ten minutes, tired of smearing cover-up goo under her eyes to hide the circles, tired of being tired. If she’d at least reach some sort of conclusion at the end of these nocturnal marathons, the loss of sleep would be worth something. But she never did. Instead, exhaustion just made her even more confused.

  So. The question du jour was, once again, what was she going to do about Dean? Why did the time never seem right to tell him about Katey?

  Nine years ago, there had been choices. She may not have liked any of them, but they’d existed. Now there were none. At least, not in the “what” categories. Only in the “whens” and “hows.”

  Neither of which could she even begin to figure out.

  Her anxiety was sending her to the john more often than her newly pregnant sister. Unfortunately, in this circus tent of a dress, that mundane activity had taken on the logistical proportions of moving a small army.

  Sarah looked at herself in the mirror, feeling like the Cotton Candy That Ate Alabama. Her short hair looked preposterous over the voluminous sleeves and skirt, like an eighteenth-century lady missing her periwig. She had tried everything—curling it, moussing it, spraying it. Two inches just didn’t give you a whole lot to work with.

  Oh, yeah. The perfect finishing touch to her already rotten mood.

  No, she thought as she picked up the matching lace-frosted beach umbrella her delirious sister thought was a “hat.” This was the perfect finishing touch.

  She yanked the thing down to her eyebrows, which made her
have to lift her head to see where she was going, then swung open her door and stomped out of the room. Ten feet and fewer seconds was not going to change her attitude very much, she knew. But she was her sister’s maid of honor, after all. Grumpiness was not an option.

  Jennifer was leaning over her vanity, applying probably the third coat of mascara to her already thick lashes, her mouth hanging open in that way it did on women when they put on eye makeup, as if somehow the muscles in the side of the face made the eyelashes stand out more, or something. Sarah never had figured that one out.

  In Jen’s reflection, Sarah could see scathingly sexy ivory lace underwear peeking out from underneath a ratty old housecoat, Jennifer’s “real” lingerie already either packed for her honeymoon or ensconced in the new apartment.

  “Oh, no, silly,” Jennifer addressed her mirror as Sarah swooshed through her door. Entangled in the bride’s hair, a dozen mammoth curlers wobbled like birds on a telephone wire. Snapping the mascara closed, Jen swung herself off her vanity seat and crossed her room to fuss with the hat and Sarah’s hair.

  Organza rustled as Sarah pretzled her arms across her ribs. “Well, at least I look a damn sight better than you do.”

  “Shut up and be still,” Jennifer said, standing on tiptoe to reach Sarah’s head. After a minute or so of tweaking and twitching, Jennifer said “There!” and parked her hands on her hips in triumph. She pointed to her closet mirror. “Go. Look. Admire the work of a master.”

  “Wouldn’t that be mistress?”

  Jen smirked. Sarah looked, her eyebrows lifting as the corners of her mouth turned down in reluctant admission that Jennifer was good at this. Soft, wispy waves now framed her face, the hat sat at an angle that made her eyes look huge and mysterious. She pivoted her head from side to side, occasionally poking at a strand of hair. “I don’t know how you did it,” she admitted, “but at least I don’t feel like Margaret what’s-her-name in The Wizard of Oz anymore.”

  “Hamilton,” Jennifer supplied, removing the rollers. At Sarah’s puzzled expression, Jennifer repeated, “Margaret Hamilton played the wicked witch in the movie.”