How was he supposed to do this? Poor him. More than half the people in the place were there because they loved Dahlia. He couldn’t say, ‘hey, people, my flaky fiancée ditched me, isn’t that a shame?’ This was a delicate balancing act, even for someone as diplomatic as Deacon.
“Our leading lady seems to have changed her mind.” He paused for the gasp and buzz that he must have known were coming. Lily watched Dahlia’s mom, Aunt Camellia, go pale beneath the little pink hat perched on her perfectly sculpted hair. It happened fast—if she hadn’t been watching, Lily might have missed it. Within seconds, Camellia was re-composed and had settled a slightly amused expression on her face, as if this is what she’d expected to happen all along.
To be fair, she may have expected this all along. She knew Dahlia as well as anyone. As well as Lily did.
Deacon was still talking to the crowd. Lily refocused on his words somewhere around “we’re all here, and the party is prepared. You’re welcome, all of you, to stick around for the evening. Let’s dance. Let’s eat. Let’s celebrate our friendship.”
Aunt Camellia took that as her cue to stand up and take Deacon’s arm. She added her invitation to his with the proper sprinkling of formal amusement and Charleston charm. Uncle Benson, who’d been standing this whole time where he was told to stand, came alone down the aisle, shook Deacon’s hand, and kissed his wife on the cheek. If he said what he was thinking, he said it quietly into Camellia’s ear. Nobody would have heard him anyway. The gathered crowd had foregone decorum for full-tilt discussion, the proper title for society gossip.
Lily imagined her phone, tucked into the tiny beaded clutch in the bride’s room, was positively blowing up by now. Every memory of every time she had to make excuses and take the heat from one of Dahlia’s crazy exploits rushed into her mind and made her skin itch.
She felt a hand on her back and turned to see Deacon, his smile not quite reaching the level of sincerity. “You okay?” he asked.
“Sure. You?”
He made a sound that was either a laugh or that puff of air that meant someone just knocked the wind out of him. Or both.
“Dance with me,” Lily said.
“Yeah. That’ll fix this.” The smile grew a fraction less forced.
She took his hand. “Can’t make it worse, right?” As they walked through the French doors into the William-Aiken House, Deacon smiled and waved at everybody.
He went to the DJ, leaned in, and said something into his ear. Lily tried not to hear a couple of jokes from old men in suits about him not waiting long to move on to the next one, but when she let go of Deacon’s hand, he grabbed her fingers tightly.
“Don’t you dare make me do this alone,” he whispered as he slid his arm over her shoulder. He danced in little bounces, without moving his feet. Poor guy couldn’t dance at all. His only discoverable flaw.
She wrapped her arm around his waist and squeezed. Laughing up into his face, she said, “As maid of honor to the dearly departed bride, I vow to stay by your side as long as you want this party to go on.”
He stopped “dancing” and dropped the fake smile. “Thank you.”
She nodded.
“I mean it, Lil. Thank you. As long as you’re here, I can do this.” He gestured to the party, or maybe it was some kind of dance move. Whatever it was, Lily kept her arm around him. “Just stay close so nobody can ask me deep and personal questions. I might need to keep you here forever.”
If only the music would blast a little louder, she thought, it could drown out the thoughts in her head. Thoughts like I’d like to throttle Dahlia. Like How does a person walk away from her own wedding? Like I’m so glad he wants me to stay close.
She knew it might look odd to some of the guests, maid of honor snuggled up to rejected groom. She was sure people were telling themselves and each other all kinds of stories. And she had a decent idea of the kinds of stories those might be. But Deacon was her friend, and if her friend needed her to stay close to him on his night of heartbreak, she’d stay.
She looked at him as he bounced and swayed and smiled. He didn’t look heartbroken at the moment.
He looked amazing.
Lily gave herself a mental slap. Confident. That’s what she’d meant. Deacon looked confident. In control. Like he could handle this. Seconds later, Kailey Pinckney glided up and stood in front of Deacon with huge, damp eyes. Lily watched with that kind of slow-motion horror as Kailey’s perfectly manicured hand reached out and stroked the lapel of Deacon’s suit. “I’m so sorry about today,” she said, her words coming out so slowly that it seemed to take forever for her to get to the part where she was asking him out at his failed wedding reception. “If you want to talk, I’m in town all weekend. Maybe we could meet for coffee? In the morning?”
Deacon’s shocked expression didn’t dissuade her. “Or, if not coffee, maybe breakfast at The Palmetto?”
Lily could feel Deacon grasping for her hand. Squeezing her wrist. Silently pleading for help. She wondered what she was supposed to do. Trip her? Knock her over? Remind Deacon of some very important plans he had for the first day of his honeymoon?
Lily caught his glance. His eyes were bugging out. He was so clearly uncomfortable that Kailey removed her hand from his chest. “You’ve got my number. Please, I’d love to help.”
How could she make those kind and generous words sound so distasteful?
Kailey walked away, swishing through the path she created in the dancers. Men stumbled out of her way exactly as she must have planned.
Deacon subtly turned his back. “Did she just . . .” he began.
Lily put her hand over her mouth and tried to keep the laugh from reaching her eyes. “Oh, she really did.” Pushing her hands through her hair, she breathed out, “Wow.” She shook her head. “Just goes to prove that there are reasons for every stereotype.”
“And I’d like to thank you for being absolutely no help at all,” Deacon said, a little laugh in his voice.
Lily shook her head. “Are you kidding me? She’s terrifying.”
“Please. You’ve got at least eight inches on her.” He spun in an awkward little move that ought to scare away any other hovering debutante vultures.
“Oh. Thank you for clarifying that my job here tonight is to literally fight off the masses of women who are lined up to take Dahlia’s place.” Lily immediately wanted to swallow the words back.
Deacon stopped dancing and stood quietly for a moment. Hands in his pockets, he looked up into the sky and then back at Lily.
Shaking her head, she tried to say something apologetic, but no words would form.
“I know. It’s fine. How about some food?” Deacon said, his fingers grazing her back and directing her to the tables. “I hear it’s both fancy and expensive, two of the words least likely to describe anything that will fill me up.”
“I promise it will be delicious, and if it doesn’t fill you, I’ll go get you a cheeseburger.”
“Deal.”
Lily felt a hand on her arm. “Lily?”
“Oh, hi, Mom,” she said, leaning down to kiss her mom’s cheek.
“Hello, Ms. Iris, Mr. Sinclair,” Deacon said, a lifetime of manners rising to the surface. “How’s the party?”
Lily’s dad chose to give her a hug instead of answering Deacon.
“Oh, honey,” Lily’s mom said, reaching her hand up to Deacon’s face, “you don’t have to pretend for me.”
Deacon leaned down and stage-whispered in her ear, “No, actually I do. I’ve got to keep this act up for at least another,” he checked his watch, “two hours and twenty minutes. Good thing I’ve got Lily here to help me.”
Lily felt the kind of gratitude that comes from someone allowing themselves to be rescued.
“Come on,” Deacon said, putting his arm around Iris’s shoulders. “Let’s go eat.”
Chapter Two
Deacon glanced around as he made his way through the reception rooms. Emmett, a good sport as always
, had agreed to play the song he’d written for Deacon and Dahlia. Now. Here. As people made themselves comfortable at the dinner tables and watched the carefully planned evening crumble. Deacon stood just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall. He couldn’t make himself sit alone at the head table to listen to Emmett’s gift.
Nodding toward his brother at the front of the room, Deacon hitched a smile onto his face and focused on breathing. Emmett sat on a stool, looking like a Calhoun man should in his perfectly tailored suit. His cellist girlfriend sat beside him, and she seemed unable to take her eyes from Emmett. Deacon had a second to wish that Dahlia looked at him like that—like she adored him—instead of her usual, which was more a look that said, “are you watching?” And Deacon always was watching. Always had been watching. Until she disappeared and there wasn’t anything left to see.
Emmett strummed his guitar and as the song started, Deacon found himself unexpectedly delighted with the music. Emmett was really something. This music, this combination of his guitar, his voice, and Janie’s cello, floated past the humiliation, the frustration, and the anger of the night and into a soft place inside. He forgot trying to look unfazed and confident and simply enjoyed the music. When the song ended, he clapped as loudly and sincerely as the rest of the audience. And he wished, perhaps more than anyone else, that Emmett would keep playing.
Instead, Deacon walked toward the head table to wait for the dinner service to begin.
As soon as he sat down, regret flooded through him. Regret for every part of this day. His mind filled with thoughts of what he could have done differently, what he could have done to make her stay.
But he knew better. Dahlia Ravenel wasn’t a woman who’d be made to do anything. That was part of what he’d loved about her since he’d met her.
He felt his spine sag against the wood backing of the chair, as though now that he had a physical support he didn’t have to hold himself upright anymore. This was a bad development. It was nowhere near the end of the night. Many hours still required him to stand up and be charming. Why did he have to come over here and sit down?
Oh. Right. Because he was starving.
Where had Lily gone off to?
He glanced through the party and saw her talking to the wedding planner who, he had to admit, was doing a great job of guiding people through what had to be the weirdest wedding in Charleston’s long and vivid history. He knuckled his eyes and wished for a drink.
When a hand touched his shoulder, he cringed instinctively away, assuming it was another Charleston belle ready to help him through this trying time.
Instead, a small glass landed on the table in front of him and Emmett slapped him on the back. “So. How’s your day?”
Deacon drained the glass before he decided not to bother answering his brother. “Any chance you’re hiding another one of these in that suit?” he asked, rattling the ice in the otherwise empty glass.
Emmett patted his pockets. “Sorry.”
Shaking his head, Deacon said, “I’m getting tired of that word. I’ve heard it from just about everyone. Everyone but Dahlia.”
Distinctly and visibly uncomfortable, Emmett said, “Do you, you know, want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Good.” Emmett pulled a chair out from the table and sat in it, his elbow touching Deacon’s. “You’re allowed to be mad, you know.”
Deacon scrunched up a handful of tablecloth and then smoothed it out again. “Almost true. I’m allowed to be mad tomorrow. Tonight, I am required to be charming and jovial and—what else are Calhoun men?”
“What do I know about it? I’m the black sheep, right?”
Deacon almost laughed. “The black sheep with the gold star after that performance.” He sat back and stretched his arm across his brother’s chair.
“You liked it?” Emmett’s voice betrayed the same little-brother need for approval Deacon had heard for decades.
“Are you kidding me? It was perfect. Best thing to come out of this wedding.”
He didn’t say anything, but Emmett’s smile suggested Deacon had said the right thing.
Lily slipped into the chair next to Emmett and slid a drink past him to Deacon. “Thought you might need this,” she said. He drained it, choosing not to mention Emmett’s contribution.
“So Emmett,” Lily said, “In the last three minutes, I’ve had every single woman here and a few who aren’t single ask me about your musical aspirations.”
Emmett blushed and said something about being recently off the market. Deacon was glad he didn’t need to respond. He knew what Lily was doing and he was grateful. For the next few minutes while Emmett and Lily talked, Deacon could look into the middle distance between them and pretend to listen while reminding himself to stay upright.
That first moment, the second Lily walked down the aisle alone and leaned in to whisper to him, Deacon felt a tiny shiver of relief wash over him. He hadn’t thought too hard about it, but now he realized it was something he should at least try to explore. Had he actually been relieved that Dahlia ditched him? Had he been holding his breath waiting for this? Was he glad she’d gone away? Or only glad that she didn’t say it to his face? That she didn’t make a firework display out of it and tell him she was leaving in the middle of the wedding ceremony? In front of all of Charleston? Because Deacon well knew that something like that was not out of character for Dahlia.
Nothing was impossible for her. Nothing should be unexpected.
That was why he’d been in love with her since he was fourteen.
She was as unpredictable as a summer rain storm, and sometimes as destructive. A force of nature. He’d lived his whole life following the path his parents had set for him. Dahlia was the arrow pointing off into the woods: “Adventure this way.”
She was fearless. She was exciting. She was astounding.
She was gone.
His stomach dropped. This was the part where he slid his head onto the table linens and never sat up again until all the guests had gone home.
He nearly let himself sink down, but he heard his father’s voice out there in the party somewhere and sat up straighter. Another drink appeared in front of him and Deacon glanced up from it long enough to see a waiter walking away.
Walking away like Dahlia had.
He felt his spine softening.
Pathetic. He was being pitiful, and he knew he was. He stood up. He heard Emmett say, “Is he okay?”
Lily answered him. “Reality appears to be setting in. Come on.” They both stood beside him, one on each side.
When Lily slipped her arm around his waist again, he put his arms on her shoulders and held her. He’d been hugging Lily for years. All the years. “Thanks for sticking with me,” he said.
She pulled away enough to make room for Emmett. “I didn’t have any other plans for tonight.”
At the same time that he laughed at her joke, he felt the loss of her closeness. Smarten up, he told himself. It’s not that Lily’s comfort is so amazing. You’re just relieved you don’t have to circulate through this crowd alone.
Alone had never been Deacon’s strong suit. He’d never enjoyed being by himself; he was a people person. The thought flitted across his mind that maybe that label was a coverup for something else. Maybe he was entirely too comfortable with his decision to never be alone with his thoughts. Perhaps a guy ought to spend some time with himself now and then.
But not now.
Now, right now, he ought to walk through this party of people who were having a good time despite the wake of destruction that Dahlia left and apparently only he could see. He ought to thank them for coming. He ought to go be pleasant to Dahlia’s mom and dad.
He thought he’d like to throw up first.
But there they were, only a few feet away. Lily wasn’t leading him there, exactly, but she was making it possible for him to do what he knew he had to do.
Eventually.
He looked around for another waiter carry
ing a drink tray. It’s possible his look was desperate, because Emmett shook his head. He made a signal that Deacon knew was supposed to remind him that he’d had enough and people were watching.
Leaning close, Emmett said, “You have to talk to everyone. And you have to do it carefully. Every word you say is going to be passed back and forth by these people for as long as it takes this scandal to be replaced by the next one.”
Deacon nodded. “Thanks, counsel. You should have been a lawyer.”
Emmett punched his arm. “Shut up.”
Playing stupid, Deacon said, “Has anyone ever told you that before?”
“Not for the last fifteen minutes.”
Lily slipped out from under Deacon’s arm and hugged her aunt. Dahlia’s mom. Camellia.
Deacon panicked. What was he supposed to say? How was he even supposed to address them? Camellia had been pressuring him to call her Mom ever since the engagement. It had never happened yet, and he was pretty sure it would be weird to start now. He stifled a nervous laugh.
Thank goodness Emmett had talked him out of that last drink.
Benson Ravenel put out his hand. “Son,” he said, and then didn’t finish, because that word hung so heavily in the humid evening air. He just stood there, shaking Deacon’s hand and shaking his head. He looked like he could use another drink. Emmett muttered something about finding someone as he squirmed out of the awkward little group.
“Oh, honey,” Camellia said, taking an unsteady step between the two men and straightening Deacon’s tie. “This is just a hot mess. But the food and the flowers are lovely.”
And she, Deacon thought, looked like she’d found a few drinks already too.
Not that he could blame her.
Lily said, “Aunt Camellia, it was a good idea to keep the party going.”
Deacon watched Camellia’s face registering the new understanding that this was her own idea.
“And,” Lily said, “I’m glad you’ve decided to serve the wedding cake. Once it’s cut and put on plates, people won’t be able to tell the difference between it and any other cake. And it’s so delicious.” The more she talked, the more Camellia nodded. Deacon had seen her do this with Dahlia on more than one occasion—convince her that something she’d not planned to do was, in fact, her brain child.
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