“Victoria?” His tone had changed.
“I’m here,” she said.
“The damn elevator is stuck. The door won’t open.”
Saved! She turned off her cell, ran into her bedroom and grabbed the wedding dress. Then she peeked out her door, heard Greg shouting from the elevator, and took the stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
Standing in the cabin’s little bedroom, she twirled around in a circle.
She wore the ivory couture gown, the Emilie Celeste original, with its French lace capped sleeves, its embroidered bodice with the delicate Swarovski Crystal detail, and the full skirt of satin and organza. Her father had wanted her to have it. Her mother had loved it on sight. And so, without even a boyfriend on the horizon, they had brought the dress home from Paris.
Her mother had promised a professional seamstress for the alterations, but they didn’t need any. The dress fit her perfectly.
What they’d done was outrageous, now that she thought about it. They’d picked out her wedding dress without any input from her. She should have felt offended.
But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d fallen in love with the soft, flowing, romantic style of the princess dress called, the Madeleine. She’d thanked them for it, hung it in her closet and gone about her life, thinking that someday she would meet him, her prince.
As she walked into the kitchen, she listened to the swish of satin and organza. The sun, now low in the sky, streamed through the leaded panes of glass. To allow more light into the tiny room, she bunched the yellow checked, lace trimmed curtains to the ends of the rod. And then she concentrated on making a sandwich.
Her bag of groceries sat on the counter next to the propane stove. The shelves above the counter displayed a selection of china bowls. She chose a white one and turned it over. Wedgwood, England 1759, Countryware.
If she ever chose a pattern of her own, it could be this one.
She opened the carton of eggs, took out two, and cracked them into the bowl. Then she retrieved a fork from the tumble of cutlery in the blue plastic box and mixed the eggs, being careful not to splash on her dress. She could have looked for an apron, but an apron over a wedding dress just didn’t seem right.
Taking a deep breath, she considered the last few days. It had all happened so quickly. She’d fallen in love. This is what it was like. This feeling of connection and completeness. And ache.
Nothing could come of it but, somehow, the peace of having found it—found what love is—spread into her being. The wonder of how good life could be bloomed in her mind. And the guilt she’d felt about her father lessened, and faded.
She could let go of her father. And her mother. She could live her life, not borrowing their dreams and goals.
She flicked the lighter on the propane stove, set the frying pan on the burner and added a dollop of butter.
She’d tricked herself into thinking Ryder was safe. Safe, because he was getting married. She’d taken pains to make sure he thought she was getting married. So she’d been doubly safe. But it hadn’t worked.
She’d fallen in love. How had that happened?
She tipped the scrambled eggs into the hot pan. The yellow mixture rippled with bubbles as the liquid swirled.
Letting the eggs cook, she pulled the loaf of French bread from its paper wrapper, sliced two pieces and placed them on a tin plate. Then she picked up the dill pickle jar and gripped the lid, straining until it popped.
Life would go on. If Greg really held the mortgage, then maybe it was for the best. Her mother could let go of the house that had chained her to Calgary, and finally return to her family in Kalispell and make peace.
Toria spread butter over the slices of bread and cut a pickle into thin strips. The eggs were almost done. Pushing them aside with the spatula, she put the buttered bread face down in the pan to warm.
Her mother would be all right. Her mother was strong and capable.
And Greg? Toria felt no regret about leaving him in the elevator. Well, she smiled, maybe a tinge of regret. But someone would have heard him and called the building super. And the elevator would finally get fixed.
She assembled her egg and pickle sandwich on the tin plate. Tin plates and china. Strange. Pro and his Aunt Tizzy had an interesting cabin.
Taking her sandwich, she stepped outside, feeling the breeze in her hair and the ripple of the light wind as it sifted over the wedding dress.
She followed the brick path to the patio behind the cabin, then continued down the dirt path that led to the fire ring. As she walked between the trees, it was like she was walking down the aisle carrying her tin plate, instead of a bouquet.
The natural grasses next to the path feathered against her dress. Sitting down on one of the six wooden benches that surrounded the fire pit, she set the plate on her lap and took a bite of the sandwich.
A tiny chickadee landed on top of the fire pit’s stack of wood, paused for a second and then disappeared down the slope, following the path that led to the lake below.
Toria took a second bite of the sandwich and felt her appetite returning as she tasted the tang of the dill pickles with the warm eggs. Some bread crumbs dropped onto the organza covered satin. She brushed them away, letting her hand pause a moment on the smooth fabric. Then she rested her palm on the rough wood of the bench. The smell of the fresh washed air, after the recent rains, mingled with the scent of the dry wood stacked in the fire pit.
She’d light the fire later tonight.
A magpie landed on the bench opposite her. He tilted his head, bowing. His long tail feathers looked like a tuxedo coat.
She rose to her feet and curtsied to him. He bent his head again, and then he lifted up into the sky. She could hear him talking to the other magpies, hear them flitting in the trees all around the cabin. Far off a pair of crows argued. Beside her, a squirrel scampered up a lodge pole pine.
She sat on the bench again and finished her sandwich supper. Then she stood, shook the crumbs from her skirt and twirled around, closing her eyes and savoring the sound of the rustling satin. Letting herself feel it for one moment longer.
It was time to go inside and get changed. The light was dimming. She could barely see the lake at the bottom of the hill. It had been turquoise in the daytime. Now it shone silver, reflecting the moonlight.
She’d hung on to the threads of her old life for long enough—afraid to disappoint her mother, afraid to disappoint her father. But somewhere between her father’s death and the rushed wedding plans, she’d realized it was not the life she wanted.
She would not disappoint herself.
She’d come here to forget Ryder. That’s what she’d told Isabelle. But thoughts of him pushed through the restraints of her mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She remembered his eyes when he challenged her, his laughter when he stopped being serious, his battle with Mrs. Sid. His never letting anyone push him around.
Her complete opposite. And yet, he had never pushed her. He’d accepted her.
And he’d kissed her.
The birds chattered overhead, a twig fell to the ground, the wind sighed through the trees, and one thing became more certain.
Ryder O’Callaghan was going to be hard to forget.
· · · · ·
The sun had set half an hour ago. The days were growing longer. He’d caught a glimpse of the moon as he’d left the highway. The first quarter, clearly visible on the cloudless night.
Two weeks into June and most of the details of his life had fallen into place.
He parked next to Isabelle’s Firebird in the graveled area at the head of the path to the cabin. The crooked old sign, Road’s Inn, had fallen on the ground. Probably during last week’s storm. He’d fix it, later.
The night was almost still. A slight breeze stirred in the trees, making its own music. For the hundredth time, doubt clouded his mind. Taking a deep conscious breath, he realized how much he needed to talk to her—needed to convince her to take a chance
on him.
High in the western sky, the waxing moon lit the way as he walked down the curving path to Pro’s cabin. He smelled the wood fire. She’d already lit the stove.
Pausing in front of the porch, uncertainty beat at him. In the next few moments, he had to say the right thing. But what was the right thing?
As he opened the door and stepped inside the cabin, a flash of panic grabbed him. The cold stove stood empty. No one was here. But the lantern burned on the table. She had to be nearby. At the fire pit?
He rushed out the door and, a moment later, he saw her. The tension left his body and he realized he’d been bracing.
She stood in front of the blazing fire wearing the same jeans and jean jacket she’d worn earlier today at the high school. And she held something, bunched in her arms. Something big and white.
And fluffy.
Her wedding dress? What was she doing?
In the next instant, she fanned out the dress and settled it over the flames. A puff of smoke billowed up—the dress almost smothered the fire—and then a fierce bright burning escaped out of the smoke.
Calmness hit him like a bolt and he felt his shoulders drop, felt himself grinning like an idiot. She’d definitely cancelled her wedding.
He moved closer, coming behind her, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her. “Kind of drastic, don’t you think?”
She spun around. “You’re here.”
He wanted to pull her into his arms, but he clamped down on the impulse and forced himself to wait. “Most people just return it to the store.”
“The store is in Paris. And why did you kiss me?”
No dancing around the issue. Fine with him. “That wasn’t a kiss.”
“Yes, it―”
He touched his finger to her chin, lifting it. Then he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. A light touch, a feather touch, an asking.
She stood still, like she was holding her breath.
He kissed her again, longer this time, deeper, feeling her arms come around him, feeling her body sway into his, feeling his arms gathering her up. Finally, he raised his head, still holding her, like she might disappear if he let her go.
“That was a kiss,” he said.
The fire crackled behind her. “But―”
“I’m not getting married.”
“You’re not?”
“And you’re not either.” At least, he thought, not to Lorimer.
A tiny smile hinted at the edges of her lips. “How did you know?”
He looked over her shoulder, at the fire, sparking and crackling. “You’re burning your wedding dress?”
She smiled then. That beautiful smile he loved to see. “No one wanted to believe I’d cancelled,” she said. “And . . . I needed to get rid of it anyway.”
“Because?”
“Because of what it represented,” she said. “It was their dream. My parents. Not mine.”
Borrowed dreams, he thought. Someone else telling you what your life should be. He’d been caught in the same trap.
Joy cascaded over him. Joy so strong he didn’t think he’d ever felt joy before. His arms looped around her as he stood there, holding her. “I’m glad you burned it.”
“Yeah?” She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
“We’ll get a new one,” he said.
“We’ll—uh―”
“We’ll take our time. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about it.”
A shudder went through him as the realization hit him and he hugged her tighter. She could have married someone else. He could have lost her.
And then he knew it couldn’t have happened. “You haven’t been marrying him, not since the night I found you out here.”
“Not since then,” she confirmed. “You were right.” She brushed her hands over his chest. “I was running away.”
Lucky for him. “Are you running away now?”
“No,” she said. “I’m regrouping.”
He kissed her again. A light quick kiss. “I like kissing you. I could get used to it.”
She kissed him back, pulling his head down, claiming his lips, holding onto him. After several long moments, she released him. “How did you know I was here?”
He smiled, and he felt like laughing. “Do you need to ask?” He touched his forehead to hers.
“Isabelle?”
“Aunt Tizzy,” he said.
“Aunt Tizzy? I need to meet her.”
“You already have.”
She frowned. “I have?”
“Aunt Tizzy,” he paused, “is Pro’s Aunt . . . Izzy.”
She looked confused.
“Aunt Isabelle. Aunt Tizzy,” he said. “They’re one and the same.”
“You mean . . .”
“Yeah. She set up this whole thing, with some help from Pro. Except you weren’t supposed to end up in the ditch that night. You were just supposed to find the cabin.”
Toria’s face lit up.
“She knew you wouldn’t be happy marrying Lorimer. And Pro had figured out I wasn’t in love with Catherine.” He tightened his arm around her . . . touched her chin. “I’m in love with you.” He kissed her again.
“And I’m in love with you,” she answered.
The moon shone, the stars winked and the music in the pines sang over the cabin and the surrounding hills. The fire burned, erasing every last shred of satin and borrowed dreams. And sitting next to the fire, with her in his lap, Ryder held on to Toria and she held on to him, for a long, long time.
Also by Suzanne Stengl
Angel Wings
A rejected lover and an ambivalent angel-in-training teach each other that love is possible when you find the right person.
Jessibelle Shay receives an invitation to the wedding of her old boyfriend and her used-to-be best friend. When she was dumped, Jessibelle’s pride forced her to pretend she didn’t care.
And now this. Now she is expected to carry on with the pretense, to wish them well, to smile for the cameras, and to pretend her life has moved on. She’s thinking it will take a miracle to get her through it, when she hears the crash of glass in her living room.
Her angel has arrived.
His mission is to accompany her to the wedding. And to prepare for it, she must complete three tasks . . .
A 26,000 word novella, available at Amazon.
About the Author
When I was a child, I shared a bedroom with three of my younger sisters. I used to tell them stories to help them fall asleep. Apparently the stories weren’t particularly interesting, because they fell asleep before the stories ended. Unaware that they were sleeping, I would keep telling the story, until my mother called up the stairs. “Sue? They’ve gone to sleep.” And then I would quietly finish the story in my head.
I didn’t start writing down my stories until much later. In my last year of university, I collected all the reports from my Marketing Group and wrote up our study like a novel. My classmates liked it, and better, so did the prof.
Finally, after getting a degree in Commerce, I found a little two-line invitation to a romance writers organization in the back of the Writers Guild magazine. And I showed up. I had found my people.
“Suzanne Stengl has a lovely voice with a subtle hint of humor.”
—A.M. Westerling, author of The Countess’ Lucky Charm
“Suzanne Stengl’s descriptions and characters are really memorable.”
—Amy Jo Fleming, author of Death at Bandit Creek
Find more books by Suzanne Stengl at
www.suzannestengl.com
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Table of Contents
Copyright
From the inside flap
Chapter One
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Also by Suzanne Stengl
About the Author
Table of Contents
Copyright
From the inside flap
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Also by Suzanne Stengl
About the Author
On the Way to a Wedding Page 22