Please Say I Do

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “He does.” Jack and Rik spoke at the same moment, each pointing unerringly at the other.

  “Eager little campers, aren’t we?” Held between the beautifully manicured fingernails of Celeste’s thumb and forefinger, the retractable tape zipped in and out of its case. “Why don’t I do you both at the same time? Just strip out of those old safari shorts and step over here into the light.”

  “Oh, gee, look at the time,” Jack said in a rush. “I really hate to hurry off like this, but…I’ve got a tennis lesson.”

  “Me, too.” Rik’s excuse was hot on the heels of Jack’s as they both backed toward the door. “I’m taking a lesson, too.”

  “We’re taking it together,” Jack confirmed.

  “Doubles,” Rik agreed.

  “That’s right” Jack reached behind him for the doorknob. “We play doubles.”

  “But, gentlemen,” Celeste said in a husky and only slightly disappointed tone of voice, “I do doubles.”

  Not today, Hallie thought as the linebackers hit the door and kept on going, leaving her to console Celeste and pay her for her trouble. This was one fee that wouldn’t appear on the Brewsters’ final bill, though. Oh, no, this fee Hallie was happy to pay herself.

  RIK SAT AT THE BAR, staring morosely at the lime wedge floating, rind up, in his glass. He barely glanced over when Hallie slid onto the stool next to him. “You look like you’ve lost your best friend in the world,” she said.

  “Nope. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Hmm. Well, that’s good.” Hallie settled more comfortably on the stool and looked around.

  Behind the bar, a young man turned to greet her with a friendly smile. “What can I get for you?”

  Her gaze dropped from that familiar smile to the more familiar name tag on his left breast pocket. “Hello, Kee-mo.” She stressed the correct pronunciation of his name to let him know she remembered him and yesterday’s conversation. “You’re a long way from the front desk, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a jack-of-all-trades, Ms. Bernhardt. A little bit country. A little bit rock and roll. May I fix you a drink?”

  She was a little bit leery of cliches and of men in general, but she was thirsty. In fact, her throat felt sorely in need of refreshment. “Thank you, Kimo, yes. I’ll have anything you have that’s clear, has no caffeine, sugar, artificial sweetener or preservatives and won’t in any way affect my equilibrium.”

  Rik picked up his glass and twisted it so the ice clinked. “She’ll have what I’m having,” he said. “Only be sure to leave out the acidic lime.”

  Kimo looked from Rik to Halite, obviously uncertain whether this was a serious request or a private joke. Hallie took pity on him. “Water,” she said, overruling Rik’s order and explaining her own. “Just plain water, thank you.”

  “That’s what I ordered,” Rik said as Kimo turned away to get a glass. “Good old H2O.”

  “Hmm. Why the sudden shift from orange juice?”

  He twisted the glass some more and watched the wiggle of the lime wedge. “Since I met you, I’ve started having nightmares about the strangest things. Worms in tequila, panty hose in the wind, citric acid in my food.”

  “Measuring tapes?” she suggested. “Blondes of either gender?”

  “Only one blonde, and only one gender.”

  “You can rest easy. Celeste left.” Hallie thanked Kimo with a smile and a tip as he set the glass of water in front of her. “She gave me an excellent idea on where to shop for underwear, though. It seems the boutique here in the hotel is not the best place locally to purchase intimate apparel. But there’s a little shop across town. If I have time and can find a taxi, I’m going to run over there this afternoon.” The water tasted about as good as anything ever had to her, and Hallie paused long enough to take a second, soothing swallow. “Not that I don’t appreciate the swim wear you bought I mean, it was a really thoughtful thing to do. And spandex has its place in the world of fashion. It just isn’t a very good substitute for silk.”

  “Thanks for telling me that”

  She turned to look at him. “What’s wrong with you? I know the incident with Celeste probably threw your testosterone levels out of sync, but that’s no reason to drown your sorrows in a glass of water.”

  His gaze slid sideways to hers, then back to the lime wedge. “I think I liked you better when you had a hangover.”

  “Hey, I can take a hint.” Hallie was offended, although she tried not to let it show. She didn’t know if she was responsible somehow for his mood now, and if by some chance she was, she didn’t think she wanted to know that, either. “I only came in the bar because I’m supposed to meet Babs Brewster in the lobby in a few minutes. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine with me. I’ll just sit here and go over my notes on the wedding.”

  She made no move to open her planner, though. Suddenly, the Brewster-Keaton wedding was the last thing she wanted to think about. “Don’t mind me,” she continued, because she wanted very much for him to reassure her that he did like to talk to her, that he did like to be with her, that he did, indeed, like her. “I’m very good at pretending I enjoy being alone, you know. I get to practice at all these weddings I attend where I don’t know a single soul except the person who hired me to coordinate the event”

  Bracing one elbow on the bar, Rik turned to face her. His bare, hairy and very warm knees slid against hers, pushing the sarong up and sending a row of goose bumps marching up her thighs. “Celeste isn’t the blonde who worries me, Hallie. You are.”

  She blinked at him from behind the corrective lenses of her glasses, glad she was able to see him up close and personal, flattered by his admission despite his gloomy tone of voice. “Technically, I’m not blond. Ash brown is what a hairdresser would call my shade.”

  He twisted his glass in a slow circle on the counter as he took his time assessing the color of her hair. “Whatever you call it, it’s nice. It suits you. And the haircut—” He took another moment to look it over. “The haircut is most becoming.”

  Surprised and intimidated by the compliment, she narrowed her eyes and flashed him a smile. “Have you been drinking? Something other than good old H2O, I mean?”

  “Are all the men in your life suspect, Hallie? Or is it only me you accuse of being insincere every time I try to pay you a compliment?”

  She didn’t know how to deal with Rik in this mood, didn’t know how to restore his good humor, didn’t know why it was important to try. “I think I liked you better when you weren’t so serious. Maybe you should switch back to orange juice.”

  “Maybe I should go for a walk.” He tipped the glass to his lips and downed the rest of the water in a long swallow. An action Hallie watched with an edgy kind of fascination. There was a dusky shadow of stubble covering his throat and jawline, a shade of concern just below his eyes. And there was a quickening in the area of her heart as she thought about bridging the space that separated them and touching his cheek. Nothing more. Just a touch. A connection of her fingertip to his skin. A contact to show her concern for whatever was troubling him.

  Hallie sighed. Oh, who was she kidding? Why didn’t she just grab him by the back of the neck, haul him close and plant one on him?

  “What?” he asked.

  “What?” she repeated, fearful that he somehow knew what she had been thinking.

  “What are you sighing for? You have everything under control again. You know where to buy replacements for the clothes you lost, and you know exactly what you need to do to make Saturday’s wedding a complete success.” He set his empty glass on the counter with a clunk and it rocked in an unsettling half circle. “What do you have to sigh about?”

  Obviously nothing, in his opinion. “I think the more pertinent question would be, what is it about Saturday’s wedding that you find so upsetting?”

  “It’s not a good match,” he said quickly, as if he had to get the words out before they choked him. “This marriage is a mistake.”

  “The Brew
sters seem to think it’s a great love match.”

  “Of course they do. They want their daughters to be wives and mothers, in that order, and sooner rather than later. They’d rather convince themselves Stephanie and Jack are a perfect fit than admit they might have pushed a little too hard for this marriage.”

  “Well…” Hallie proceeded slowly, wanting him to confide in her, hoping she was misreading his body language and tone of voice, telling herself he was simply concerned about his best friend’s future happiness. “If Jack and Stephanie don’t have a problem with marrying each other, I wouldn’t think the state of their relationship is anyone else’s business.”

  His lips tightened in what she perceived to be bitter disappointment, and her heart sank, dragging her hopes with it. “You’re right,” he said. “What business is it of mine if they want to go through with this marriage and ruin their lives? I’m just the best man.”

  An elderly man shuffled up behind Rik’s bar stool and proceeded to sweep a speck of dust and a peanut shell off the floor and into his portable dustbin. “Darn honeymooners,” he muttered. “Ifn they had a lick of sense, they’d have stayed single!”

  Rik looked over his shoulder and Hallie followed his gaze. The older man—his hotel badge read simply Dave—gave the floor another swipe with his broom, then snapped the lid of the dustbin and shuffled over to sweep under Hallie’s stool. “Gettin’ married was the biggest mistake of my life,” Dave continued to mutter. “Worst mistake a man can make. I know. I done it five times. Five times! Same woman! Same goldarn, stubborn old woman every time!” He shuffled on, still talking to himself, still belaboring the institution of marriage and anyone silly enough to enter into it.

  Whatever Dave’s experience, his gruff interruption seemed to sweep away Rik’s depression. Hallie would have liked to think it was her sympathetic ear, her ability to listen in a compassionate, soothing manner that had made him feel better. But she was pretty sure he’d just gotten tired of pondering the reasons Jack and Stephanie shouldn’t be getting married, and with the uncanny faculty men seemed to possess as a genderspecific trait, he had simply decided not to think about it anymore.

  “I think I’ll go for that walk now. Want to come with me?”

  She tried not to let her gaze shift past him to the rambunctious display of wind beyond the open bar. “Isn’t it a little windy?”

  “Not for a man among men like me.” There was a hint of self-deprecation in the smile tugging at the corner of his lips and a trace of it in his voice. And for no reason she could fathom, Hallie felt like crying.

  “Tell me something, Hallie?”

  At that moment, she would have lied through her teeth if she’d thought it would make him happy. “Sure.”

  “How did you get that scar on your cheek?”

  She touched it self-consciously and felt the old familiar rise of regret. “I got hit by a punch bowl.”

  He didn’t laugh and she risked a glance at his impassive, expectant expression. Then, maybe because it had been a long time since she’d talked about it, or maybe just because he’d asked, she told him the story. “It was the wedding of the century,” she began. “In terms of catastrophes, that is. The bride insisted everything had to be planned to perfection. Nothing unexpected should happen. No detail was too small to be overlooked. It would be perfect.”

  Hallie could almost laugh about the silliness of that now. Almost. “Needless to say, the wedding was planned to the nth degree. Nothing was too minor to rate attention. The bride and groom were sure of each other and of the forever quality of their love. But even the best-laid plans sometimes give way to disaster. And that’s what happened.”

  Her hand strayed to the bowl of peanuts on the bar and she munched on one before she continued. “The wedding was utter chaos from the moment, only an hour before the ceremony, when the organist arrived, tripped over the bride’s going-away case, fell and broke her wrist. No music.

  “No problem. The bride’s brother had a friend who worked at a music store across town. The friend was working and couldn’t leave the store, naturally, but a tape of wedding music was available if someone wanted to drive over and pick it up. The brother volunteered, and on the way, he wrecked the groom’s car. Luckily, no injuries, except to the car.”

  She glanced at Rik, wondering if he was bored beyond reason. He didn’t appear bored at all. She sighed and ate another peanut “Did I mention it was a new car? Brand-new, less than a hundred miles on the odometer, and the vehicle the happy couple had been planning to drive on their honeymoon. But as the maid of honor pointed out a little later, they could rent a car for their trip. Fine.

  “No problem. So, minus the organist and the Wedding March, the bride headed down the aisle and the “I do’s’ were said. Wedding over. Mission accomplished. All’s well that ends well. Ah, but then we move on to the bride’s family’s backyard and the outdoor reception. There was a tent, an orchestra, and an entire wall of catered hors d’oeuvres. And a cake. My God, what a cake. Five layers high and thick with eye appeal. Everyone admired that cake. Every mouth under that tent was watering for just a taste of it. Next to the cake, the crystal punch bowl looked like an afterthought and the champagne punch barely raised an eyebrow.”

  Another peanut disappeared and she paused for a drink of water. “Did I mention that the rain started during the wedding ceremony? No? Well, a little rain. No problem. At least not until about twenty minutes into the reception, when the thunder and lightning started, followed a few minutes later by a good eight inches of rain, all within an hour’s time. The wedding reception was buried in the deluge. The yard turned into a swamp. The canvas tent sagged, then ripped, then caved in. I dived for cover under the table holding the wedding cake. Unfortunately, the table legs sank in the mud just as I made my swan dive. I wound up sitting in a puddle the size of Georgia, covered by five layers of soggy, sickening wedding cake, while the punch bowl slid the length of the table and hit me on the head. The cut wasn’t deep, but we couldn’t get it to stop bleeding. My dress was ruined at that point anyway, but when Brad— he was the groom—tore off a bit of the sleeve to press against my cheek, it was the last straw. I started crying. At that point, everyone hastened to assure me the worst was over. What else could possibly happen? There wasn’t anything left to go wrong. I should have known better than to believe them.”

  “Did the family sue you?”

  She shook her head, wondering how long it would be before she remembered that day with any kind of objectivity. “Since it was my wedding, there wasn’t much point.”

  “Your wedding?”

  He didn’t have to sound so shocked, she thought, but she ignored the impulse to say so. “Ironic, isn’t it? That horrible experience convinced me to open Bernhardt Bridal. I decided that since every possible thing that could go wrong at a wedding had already happened to me, I’d have a unique perspective to give to any bride who thought she had to plan the perfect wedding. And to everyone’s surprise but my own, I’m quite successful at achieving perfection. The secret is—” She glanced over at him, then pushed away the bowl of peanuts. “Forget it I’m not telling you my secret You might move to Boston and open your own bridal service.”

  “I’m not into ceremonies. Weddings, perfect or otherwise, are not my area of interest” He gave her a strange, pensive look, then shook his head. “I would never have pegged you as a wife, though. You don’t look married. You don’t wear a wedding ring.”

  She held out her hands, fingers splayed and unadorned. “I find rings just get in my way’

  The memory of how bothersome Brad had found his wedding ring and how quickly he’d stopped wearing it altogether tightened around her and she shooed it away with a squaring of her shoulders. “So that’s the story of my wedding scar, the sad tale of a true disaster.”

  “And a lesson in how good things can come out of bad.”

  “Here, here!” She lifted her glass in a silent toast to Brad, her ex-husband and one of the r
easons she was happy today.

  Rik pulled out his wallet and added a couple of dollars to Kimo’s jar of tips. “Let me ask you one more thing, Hallie,” he said as he slipped off the bar stool and stood beside her.

  Don’t ask, she thought, afraid he’d probe for the sorry details of her disastrous marriage. Don’t ask.

  “As it turns out, I’m not very good at pretending I like to eat alone.” His smile developed slowly and took her heart by storm. “Ms. Bernhardt,” he said formally, “would you care to have dinner with me tonight?”

  Relief surged through her with the force of a flood. He was asking her on a date. Well, not a real date. Just dinner. A nice, friendly dinner. She had no reason to feel as if he’d just proposed they buy a sailboat and sail around the world together. She slid off the bar stool, brushing against him because he was standing so very near and there was no other way for her to be on her feet and standing except right next to him. Right next to his hard chest. Right next to his beating heart. Right next to a temptation she’d rather not feel. But what the heck. After all, she was standing knee-deep in Paradise. “I’d love to have dinner with you,” she said. “As long as you promise not to notice I’m wearing the same thing I’ve worn all day.”

  “Lose the sweater and it’s a deal. You have beautiful shoulders, Hallie. It’s a shame to keep them covered.”

  Her heartbeat took off like a quarter horse, but she grabbed the reins and slowed it to a fast trot. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Austin.” Reaching into the pocket of his sweater, she closed her fingers over a small, square instrument of torture. “I have plans for after dinner,” she said, withdrawing the retractable tape measure and giving the tape a zippy little pull. “So don’t even think about signing up for a tennis lesson.”

  For a moment, their gazes connected, and then he laughed. “It’s hard to imagine anything could be more exciting than spending the night with you while you’re passed out The thought of you measuring me while sober will undoubtedly get me through the rest of the day.” He raised her chin with a nudge of his thumb. “Eight o’clock tonight. It’s a date.”