“Heads,” Sabrina said as the coin spun in the air and landed on one black cuff. It came up tails.
Taking note of her grim expression, Gage said, “Bottom’s up, Maid March. You’re playing to a tough crowd.”
She peered into the Cotillion Room. The musicians were still parked next to the altar between two vases of mums, but the guests had scattered. Some had decided not to wait any longer. Bidding them farewell at the door were Cybil and her twin daughters. They wore the same bridesmaid’s dress as Sabrina’s, only the muted green that made her look like a dialysis patient toned down the twins’ ruddy complexions and strawberry-blond hair.
Sabrina handed Gage her unfinished beer. He stepped in front of her and opened the French doors.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “I’ve got your back.”
Right.
Shoulders back, she made her way down the center of the aisle using the purposeful stride that signaled to press and constituents that the Hon. Rep. Ward was about to take center stage.
Only no one seemed to notice.
Sabrina glanced at the sea of unfamiliar faces. Cybil had made sure that the entire Cole family and all of their acquaintances were invited, but Sabrina couldn’t spot any of Molly’s friends or family, nor did she see any of their neighbors from Cadence Corners, the small community where the two friends had grown up.
Sabrina cleared her throat and began to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? Excuse me?”
It was a futile endeavor; her natural timbre was husky and inaudible without a microphone. So she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, long and loud.
The Honorable Theo Ward would not have approved, but heads swiveled in her direction and the room went quiet.
“Ladies, gentlemen — everyone — thank you for your attention.” She slipped into her cordial public-relations voice. “I’m the maid of honor. It’s probably come to some of your attentions that there’s been a delay.”
“Only some of our attentions?” a drunken groomsman cawed from the bar. Sabrina felt her face flame. Maybe she should have finished the beer.
“All of us who gathered together here today want to share Molly and Sebastian’s big day.” She scanned the crowd briefly with a benevolent smile — a trick she’d learned from Theo. “But sometimes two people who really love each other want to keep their vows private…”
Sabrina no longer knew what she was talking about or why. She noticed that the Cole clan had closed ranks and were now staring at her in shock.
“What the Sam Hill are you chattering on about, Sabrina?” Schulster “Shuck” Cole shouted, his brow drawn in an angry furrow. “Skip the oration and cut to the chase.”
Wonderful, she thought. He was already three sheets and blowing. She cleared her throat and brightened her smile. “Molly and Sebastian have eloped to Paris.”
“Paris?” Shuck’s face paled a bit. “What’s in Paris, other than soup and diapers?”
“Not Paris, Texas. Paris. France.”
The room buzzed with conversation. Shuck’s cheeks began to mottle; Cybil looked away dramatically, her mouth drawn in a taut line. The Cole twins just looked disappointed.
When all else failed, resort to humor, Theo had told her. Only Sabrina’s mind had gone blank. Then, like an angel of mercy, Gage swooped in from the sidelines. He grabbed two flutes of champagne from a table and crossed the room in a few easy strides.
“Here,” he said under his breath as he handed her one of the glasses. “You look like you need it.”
Then he turned around and gave the guests a charismatic smile that Sabrina usually associated with celebrity magazine covers.
“Hey, folks, I’m the other messenger Molly and Sebastian tag-teamed to get shot,” he said in his rich, rumbling voice. “Sabrina already did the hard part.” One big arm snaked around her shoulders, and then her cheek was forcibly pressed against his lapel. “I only have a couple more things to add. But first—”
Releasing her, he downed most of his champagne. “There, that’s better. Actually, it’s a helluva lot better.”
A few of the guests chuckled as the tension in the room disappeared. Sabrina made herself keep smiling. Nothing explained how Gage Fitzgerald from Chap Stick County, flying only by the seat of his pants with a bad case of the fuck-its, had saved her with his innate sense of comedic timing. He made establishing a close rapport with strangers look easy.
“The happy couple apologized for getting you decked out in your silly suits in this hot weather,” he went on. “They also want you to know that they’re having a blast. Hot damn, isn’t it great that they started their life together in Paris?”
“Hell yeah!” someone called from the back of the room.
“Finally, I am under their express orders to tell you all that under no circumstances are you to leave tonight without having a good time. I know Shuck and Cybil would agree.”
The subtle pinched look that stole across the Coles’ faces was priceless.
“How are you folks feeling? A little hungry? Thirsty? No, not you guys growing roots at the bar, the rest of you. The booze and the eats are paid for, so let’s get this party underway.” Gage lifted his champagne flute. “Cheers to Molly and Sebastian. Or as they say in Paris — what do they say in Paris?” he asked Sabrina.
“A la tienne.” She raised her glass.
The room was filled with the sound of tinkling crystal.
“Back atcha,” Gage said softly, catching her gaze. Of course to catch it, she had to crane her neck. She imagined what she must look like from his almost aerial view: a cap of messy blond on brown, a flutter of eyelashes, and a bump of nose.
The musicians struck up Ravel as though cued, and guests began to mill around comfortably while a small army of white-coated waitstaff swanned in bearing chafing dishes. Sabrina looked around for Gage, but he had disappeared from view.
She made her way to the cake table for another glass of champagne. She should go easy on the alcohol. She’d always been a featherweight, even when she was at university. But this was Molly’s wedding — or rather, her un-wedding?
Sabrina admired the cake, a four-tiered wonder decorated with elaborate curls of white chocolate and candied rose petals. She wondered if Molly would want pictures.
“Commendations for such an eloquent impromptu speech,” a woman’s voice said from right behind her, cool and controlled. Sabrina jumped, splashing champagne on her dress.
Cybil Cole had a ninja-like way of infiltrating other people’s personal space before she spoke. She wore a chiffon dress in a soporific shade of puce that looked good only on fifty-something Junior Leaguers and pampered Peyton Heights housewives. Cybil happened to be both.
Sabrina gathered her wits and mimicked Cybil’s plastered-on smile.
“I wish I could tell you it was my pleasure. I know you wanted to see Sebastian get married.” Sabrina employed the measured tone she used when fielding questions from the press. “Unfortunately, these things happen.”
“I suppose. However, it would have been nice to know of the change in plans before I added lobster bisque to the menu.” Cybil’s eyes narrowed. “You and Molly are as thick as thieves. Did she mention or even allude to eloping, by chance?”
“I didn’t hear a whisper,” Sabrina said honestly. Something in Cybil’s eyes stirred like leaves under river water. She took a step closer and lifted a bony hand drenched in vintage Harry Winston under the pretext of brushing imaginary lint from Sabrina’s shoulder.
“Don’t grow that halo on my behalf, Sabrina March,” she hissed through her smile. “I simply refuse to believe you.”
She whooshed back, leaving Sabrina in a cloud of powdery-smelling amber. Cybil had to be one of the last women alive who still reached for the Shalimar bottle.
Sabrina clenched her teeth and tried not to think about the check that came across her desk like clockwork at the beginning of every campaign season signed Mrs. S.L. Cole. She hitched a
hand on her hip. “Look, Cybil, let’s get a few things straight—”
“Heavens!” Cybil interrupted, looking appalled as she peered over Sabrina’s shoulder. “What’s he done to the fine linen?”
Sabrina whirled around. Gage was headed their way, toting a large white tablecloth with bulging contents. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Shuck Cole also barreling in their direction. Sensing she was about to witness a collision of unprecedented magnitude, she downed the rest of her champagne.
“Shuck, how’s it going?” With a wide grin, Gage slapped his palm against the other man’s, engaging him in a hearty handshake. “Cybil, you know a good foie gras.”
“It’s truffle pâté. Always good to see you, Gage,” Cybil lied.
“Paris, France. Well, hell’s bells.” Shuck went straight to bluster. “Does my impractical son know how much this shindig cost me? And not even a wedding for the trouble!” He looked at Gage with suspicion. “I’m gonna ask you straight up, Fitzgerald: did Sebastian tell you about these shenanigans?”
“Who, me?” He looked surprised as he hoisted the tablecloth over his shoulder, but Sabrina detected mischief in his eyes. “Oh, sure. I drove him and Molly to the airport last night.”
“How could you?” Cybil asked, horrified.
“No worries, Mrs. C. I had free time in my schedule. You know how bad the parking is.”
The insouciance of his delivery was unbelievably audacious — and impressive. Shuck drew a breath to launch his next tirade. Before he could begin, Gage wrapped his free arm around Sabrina’s shoulders.
“Now you’ll have to excuse me while I whisk the maid of honor away for a moment of Zen in the shade,” he told the Coles. “I think we both need it.”
If she hadn’t had the second glass of champagne, she would have been far less malleable. Instead, she let him lead her out to the balcony through the French doors.
“Well, that was poor form,” she pointed out. “The attendants can’t just duck and run.”
“So this is the thanks I get for coming to your rescue? Wax poetic in front of an audience that’s busy chasing shots, and you set yourself up for the big fail. You were choking up there, honey.”
Easy for you to say after I did all the heavy lifting. Sabrina side-eyed him.
“In any case, I’m smart enough to stay away from the Coles when they’re circling the tank,” he went on. “And you—” He chuckled. “—I saw you facing off with Cybil. You were about to take the gloves off.”
“She’s like an intrusive monarch,” Sabrina muttered. “She deserves a dies horribilis.”
“Admit it.” Gage paused on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the south lawn, putting them at eye level with each other. “You don’t want to go back in there any more than I do.” He tossed his head in the direction of the Cotillion Room.
Sabrina blew her bangs out of her eyes. Gage made a persuasive argument, and lucky for him, she was in a very persuadable mood.
“What’s in there?” She eyed the bulky tablecloth warily.
“Vintage port, courtesy of Shuck’s cellar. Very long, very French bread.” How could she resist that wide, lazy smile? “Everything we need for a little peace and quiet.”
“Good luck with that,” she murmured. Guests had spilled onto the south lawn and were migrating toward the gazebo. Somewhere on the grounds a peacock screamed.
“Just trust me,” Gage said over his shoulder. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
CHAPTER TWO
As she traipsed down the grassy slope in her heels, Sabrina realized that her head was already fuzzy from the beer and champagne. Maybe she’d ordered her spirits incorrectly. What was the old saying, “Wine before beer, never fear?”
Or was that beer before liquor?
She followed Gage to the far end of the estate’s rolling green. He came to a stop under the shade of a secluded oak. After double-checking the area, he spread the tablecloth on the ground along with the rest of his loot. Sabrina watched him produce a Swiss army knife from his pocket and deftly uncork one of the port bottles. He poured them each a generous amount and handed her a glass before making himself at home on the fine white linen.
“This is more like it,” he said. He pulled off the tux jacket and rolled up the starched sleeves of his shirt to reveal strong forearms heavily inked in black. Three-lobed, ivy-like leaves of a plant she couldn’t identify twined around his elbows and wound around the top of his arms, ending at his wrists. The design was intricate, almost organic, suggesting that he’d shelled out a decent wad of cash to an artist with some experience and prestige.
He definitely didn’t have a traditional day job. Sabrina went through a shortlist of potential professions. Bar bouncer. Day laborer. Semi-pro athlete, perhaps.
Gage was quietly staring at the horizon. His stillness calmed her nerves, and she kicked off her sandals. She broke apart one of the honfleur baguettes and passed him half. She didn’t know how long they sat there drinking port, gnawing on the bread and gazing at the sky. She only knew that the musicians had stopped playing and a bright November sun was sinking in the west, turning the sky a sherbet swirl of pink, tangerine and gold. Except for their anachronistic attire and Gage’s body ink, they could be characters in a Merchant-Ivory film.
Finally she broke the silence. “So why did you hold out on everyone?”
“Because Sebastian asked me to,” he replied. “He and Molly really did want people to show up and have a good time. You know Shuck; he would have closed down the house. Money to fuel a furnace and none to enjoy.”
“Molly should have told me.”
“She wanted to, but she was afraid you’d spill the beans early so you could get a full return on the dress.” He eyed it dubiously. “Can’t say I blame you. There’s probably a fine body in there somewhere, but no one can see it.”
She was willing to trade the insult to her attire in exchange for his benefit of the doubt. Now the pale green silk was stained with champagne, rendering it useless to a consignment shop without a good dry cleaning.
“I don’t believe in big weddings,” Gage said. “They’re just an excuse for everyone to dress up and get drunk on somebody else’s dime. Not that I — personally — am complaining.” He lifted a bottle of 1991 Dow in mock salute and grinned.
“I don’t believe in marriage.” Sabrina hiccupped delicately. “Generally speaking.”
“Did the bride know about this when you agreed to be her maid of honor, or could it possibly be that you think Molly and Sebastian are the exception to the rule?”
“Give it ten years, then ask me again.” She relished the taste of the vintage port. With swirling notes of blackberries and dark chocolate, it had a richness that could have only been imbued by time. “I hope for the best, but I’m not surprised by the worst.”
“Wow, in vino veritas.” He looked at the white band of skin on her ring finger. “Did you ditch the rock for the bachelorette party, or are you playing hooky?”
“Neither. I’m recently — I just got—” Why was such a simple word so hard for her to say? Sabrina took a deep breath.
“Divorced?” Gage filled in softly.
She nodded her head with what she hoped was the right amount of somberness. Then noticing the sympathetic look on his face, she quickly clarified, “Actually, I got an annulment, if you want to get technical about it.”
“What happened? Did you find out he had somebody on the side?”
“Of course not.” Sabrina shot him an irritated look. It was so like a man to leap to the conclusion that cheating was involved. “Just plain old irreconcilable differences.”
“My condolences. How long after the wedding did you launch the lifeboats?”
Sabrina gave him a suspicious glance. “Not that long,” she hedged.
“What does ‘not that long’ mean these days, I wonder?” he mused. “A year? Two years?”
“No, one.”
Gage shook his head. “Wow. Only a year.
”
“No, one day.” She gave him a brazen stare. He studied her carefully before erupting in hearty laughter.
“A one-day marriage? Now I’ve heard it all. Are you serious?” He looked at her again just long enough to ascertain that she was. “I suppose you are. And here I thought stuff like that only happened in romantic comedies and celebrity tabloids.” He wiped away tears of mirth with his thumb and forefinger. “What happened? Whirlwind courtship?”
“No, nothing like that. Jackson and I knew each other for five years.”
“So you’re telling me you spent more than almost two thousand days with the poor guy only to decide that you were mismatched in a single day?”
“It was more like fifteen hundred,” Sabrina corrected him. “We took a breather from each other for a year. It was a complicated situation. Fortunately, there was a simple solution.”
“The lifeboat,” Gage confirmed.
Sabrina gave him what she hoped was a seasoned look. “Marriage is a legal contract,” she explained. “The problem is that most people don’t know what’s in their contract until they enter into it. I was damned lucky that I got a peek at the prenup — metaphorically speaking, of course.” She paused and frowned thoughtfully. “I could say the same for all of my engagements, when you think about it.”
“So there’s been more than one,” Gage mused. “Tell me, Maid March, how many gentlemen cleverly avoided placement in the ‘irreconcilable’ category?”
“One, two—” Sabrina corralled her focus by counting on her fingers. “—I’ve been engaged five times, including the most recent. My third fiancé and I never set an actual date, so I’m not sure if that one counts.”
“Neither am I,” Gage laughed. “But I’m pretty sure the employees at the county clerk’s office would thank you profusely for not creating a never-ending paper trail that culminates in divorce decrees. So in all of these engagements, were you the runner?”
“Excuse me. The what?” Slightly buzzed, she immediately thought of floor coverings.
“The runner,” he said, as though the word alone were self-explanatory. “Did you call the whole thing off?”
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