Wooing the Wedding Planner

by Amber Leigh Williams

  “We?” Olivia asked. “Think again, mister. Your woman here doesn’t need rescuing.”

  James tilted his head at his wife. The corner of his mouth moved. It was a nonverbal come-hither that nearly made Roxie’s weary feet move in double-time. “I could persuade her. It’s not rescuing if there’s persuasion involved. Ain’t that right, lil’ mama?”

  Adrian looked as if she were fighting laughter. Warmth flooded her features. She walked to the open window and angled her face up to his. “Any other day, you wouldn’t have had to stop. You could’ve just slowed down, and Roxie and I would’ve jumped into the backseat and you’d be peeling out of here.”

  “Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,” Olivia rhymed, polishing off the remnants of the éclair.

  Though his chin came to rest on his folded arms, James eyed Olivia over the crown of Adrian’s head. “Isn’t it ‘Peter, Peter?’”

  “You need to take your peter home,” Olivia informed him, crude. She brushed her hands together to remove the icing. “Save it for your redhead later.”

  “Hey,” James said, feigning offense on behalf of his redhead and his privates.

  The redhead in question grabbed him by the bill of his cap. “She’s right. Get your fine ass back to the inn and stay there. A little baby time won’t kill you.”

  James’s jaw moved though he didn’t look entirely dissatisfied. “The pink one puked on me.”

  “They’re both pink.” Adrian grinned.

  “Okay, the loud one puked on me.”

  Roxie began to cross to the Jeep. “What’s wrong, James? You don’t like babies?”

  “He loves babies,” Adrian said, patting his arm. “He’s just never been around them. Go. If you change one of them, I’ll give you a cookie.” Her brows quirked. “A very...hot...cookie.”

  His brows rose over the rim of his glasses and he reached over to put the Jeep in gear. “I heard that.”

  She leaned up to plant a kiss on him. Roxie found herself sighing a little as the man kissed his wife with all the abandon of a person still completely and hopelessly lost over another. Apparently the romantic in her hadn’t been completely ripped up from the roots. Perhaps she did still believe in love. Being surrounded by committed couples that had managed to find happiness despite daunting odds—Briar and Cole, Olivia and Gerald, Adrian and James—certainly helped.

  She wasn’t a quitter. She never had been. And she’d never not been a romantic. It was natural, even inevitable, that she’d reached the point of questioning whether she needed to explore an alternate ending for the marriage she’d desperately wanted in the first place—the marriage she’d idealized.

  Olivia’s voice pealed over the newlyweds’ exchange. “Hey!” she said to Roxie. “Where’re you going?”

  Roxie dodged around the Jeep’s grille. She wasn’t a quitter. Nope. She wasn’t a sprinter either. “Somebody’s gotta ride shotgun.” Lowering her voice through the passenger window, she added to James, “I change the diaper, you get the credit. Just get me out of here.”

  “I heard that,” Adrian pointed out.

  James reached over the passenger seat to pop the lock. “Hop in, sugar.”

  Roxie felt her phone vibrating on her hip. Holding up a finger for James, she pulled it from the waistband of her leggings. The caller ID was listed as unknown. She answered it anyway. “Hello?”

  “Is this Roxie Honeycutt?”

  “Speaking,” Roxie replied.

  “Hi! This is Vera Strong. I believe you know my son, Byron.”

  Oh, what fresh hell is this? The blood drained from Roxie’s face. “I did not sleep with him!” she blurted then clamped her hand over her mouth.

  There was a slight pause then a friendly chuckle. “I’m happy to hear it, dear. I’m calling because he’s under the impression that you’re looking for a new place to live.”

  For a moment, Roxie was confounded. Then she remembered the brief exchange she’d had with Byron before he left her apartment yesterday morning. He’d admired the view from the windows. She’d admitted that she was looking for a change of scenery. He’d had a hard time imagining better scenery than what she had already. Roxie had told him about her new mantra—New Year, New Roxie. Which all started with finding a new place to live. Something that might begin to erase the hollow feeling that had moved into the apartment with her and refused to depart despite repeated attempts at eviction.

  What was wrong with the old Roxie? he’d asked.

  That had stuck with her. And the kiss.

  It was difficult to forget a kiss, especially a kiss from someone...well, someone like Byron. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit trying not to think about how sweet it was—she’d forgotten kisses could be so sweet. And she’d tried especially to forget how his lips had lingered. And how in lingering he’d awakened starbursts. Small starbursts of eternity.

  Roxie frowned deeply. Being touched... It had been so long since she had really been touched. The emptiness in her had turned into a resounding ache at his contact, and for a few moments, she’d considered bringing Byron’s mouth back down to hers. For a few moments, she’d craved more than his companionship. She’d craved the contact. The promise of heat that came with it.

  But had she wanted it for the single reason that his heat could erode her loneliness? There was trust there. There was affection. For those small starbursts of eternity, there had been longing and the promise of flame. It had been so long since she’d felt the sheer electrical pulse of new chemistry.

  But why did it seem like so long since she’d felt the flame? The passion?

  Had she wanted Byron for the promise of passion? Had she wanted him because she was lonely—because she missed someone else?

  She dispelled the riot of confusion left over from that night. Byron wasn’t the guy. He wasn’t her guy. He’d admitted that there was only one great love in life. His words and the experience behind them had even gone so far as to convince her to give Richard another chance.

  Of course, that was before the kiss. But that was beside the point.

  “Hello?” Vera said.

  “Yes,” Roxie said, giving herself a quick, discerning shake. “Sorry. Yes, I am in the market for a new place.”

  “That’s great,” Vera said. “My husband, Constantine, and I are in the real estate business. We own a dozen or so homes in Baldwin County. Several of them are in the Fairhope and Point Clear area. Most are lease houses with a twelve-month contract. If you’re interested, we could arrange a few showings. I understand you’re a busy woman. We would be happy to meet you at your convenience.”

  Her heart began to beat a bit faster at the possibilities. New Year. New Roxie. This was exactly what she needed to get her life back on track. “I’m interested,” Roxie told Vera. “Are you free late this afternoon?”

  “Sure. Does five thirty work for you?”

  “It does,” Roxie said. She’d have to rush from the Hamilton wedding. It didn’t start until three thirty, but she had her assistant, Yuri, to fall back on. And Adrian would be there to help. “Text me an address and I’ll meet you.”

  “Fabulous,” Vera cheered. “I’m looking forward to meeting the woman who didn’t sleep with my son.”

  Roxie ended the call on a nervous chuckle. She stared at the screen for a moment, wondering if she should give Byron a call. As a thank-you.

  No, Roxie. Nix the Perseus and Andromeda.

  “Come on, Rox,” James said. “Let’s get goin’.” As she hopped in, he flipped Olivia and Adrian a salute, shouted “Race you!” and with a mash of the accelerator, they were off.

  * * *

  “THE ONE ON Nichols wasn’t so bad.”

  “None of the Strongs’ houses have been bad so far,” Roxie pointed out as she steered her Lexus through light evening tra
ffic. “What I’m looking for, though, is something a little more... I don’t know. Special.”

  In the passenger seat, Briar Savitt nodded. “You’re waiting for something to jump out and take a bite out of you.”

  Roxie’s lips twitched. “If Liv were here, it’d be Euphemism City. Though you’re right. I want something I can be excited about coming home to.”

  At the sound of a squeal from the backseat, Briar turned and smiled at her daughter, Harmony, who was strapped into a car seat. “Almost there, baby girl.” She groped for a toy Harmony had dropped on the floor and stretched to hand it back to her. “What do you think of Vera?”

  “She’s marvelous,” Roxie said and meant it. “I don’t know why I was worried.” She had asked Briar to tag along. Vera and her husband, Constantine, had invested in Briar’s bed-and-breakfast. The Strongs and Savitts were on first-name terms, and Roxie had hoped that having Briar around would help make the introduction to Byron’s mother less uncomfortable after her awkward outburst over the phone.

  In the end, Roxie hadn’t had anything to worry about. Just as Briar had assured her, Vera was just as easy to get along with as Byron. Though hearing Byron’s name in conjunction with the word easy made images come to Roxie’s mind that would’ve made Olivia proud...

  “Serendipity Lane?” Briar said as they passed the sign. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s nice,” Roxie acknowledged as they both took a look at the neighborhood. “Very nice.” The area was clean and heavily residential. The trees were aged behemoths. Roxie could tell the homes were older. Most had been treated to modern face-lifts.

  Vera’s SUV pulled to the curb behind a mailbox with the numbers 77 painted on it. “This must be the last one,” Roxie said.

  “Ooh,” Briar said as Roxie parked behind Vera. “Would you look at that?”

  Roxie’s jaw dropped as she peered through the passenger window at the grand white Victorian. All the houses on the street were nice. But this one... It was like a celestial winter faerie palace, only more homey than extravagant. The front yard was large, rectangular. A picket fence framed annual springtime beds.

  High on the second floor, there was a big round stained-glass window. The last light of day shined on it, making the wavy iridescent streaks of the orange sun hanging low over azure blue waves glow.

  The breath rushed out of her. Her voice was scant when she finally found words. “Holy wow. It’s like utopia.” There was a wraparound porch with a large cushioned lay-back swing. She could imagine herself lounging there in the summer. She could hear the wind blowing through those ancient trees and the ice clinking against the sides of her tea glass.

  The vision was so tangible, she had to blink to bring herself back to the wintry present. She barely remembered to grab her purse before joining Vera on the sidewalk, Briar right behind her with Harmony on her hip.

  “What do you think?” Vera asked. The woman didn’t look old enough to be the mother of a thirtysomething-year-old man. Though one thing Byron and Vera did have in common was their striking good looks. With dark hair flowing down her back in waves, a tailored red dress cloaking her hourglass figure and towering Mary Jane heels, she looked more like one of the glossy coanchors of Entertainment Tonight than the low-key small-town real estate agent that she was. “I think we saved the best for last.”

  “You aren’t kidding,” Roxie murmured. “I’ve always had a thing for Victorians.”

  “Wait until you get a load of this one,” Vera advised as she rooted through her purse for the key. She led them up the sidewalk to the porch steps. “It’s a family house. Built in 1949 by Con’s uncle for his wife when he brought her over from Greece to live out the rest of their lives here.”

  “How sweet,” Briar said, peering through the glass surrounding the front door as Vera bowed to unlock it. “I love houses with a story behind them.”

  Vera swung the door open and turned back to them. “After you, dears.”

  “Thank you.” Roxie stepped over the threshold. The flooring struck her first. It was spectacular. Walnut. There was crown molding. No doubt the interior had been updated within the last ten to fifteen years. The small cut-glass chandelier over the entry caught her eye. Drops of foggy sea glass dangled from the fringes. She had to stop herself from touching it.

  “From the island of Santorini,” Vera explained, “where Athena and her sister, Con’s mother, immigrated from after the Second World War.”

  Beyond the foyer, she caught sight of the staircase in the living room. It arched to the right, and curlicue ironwork made up the banister. “Oh, my word.” She lowered her voice in automatic reverence. “Vera, this is stunning!”

  “It doesn’t even have that old house smell,” Vera boasted. “There’re three bedrooms, an office, two full baths and one half bath. There’s a full laundry service in the basement. The furnishings are optional. You can get rid of everything, keep everything, or pick and choose what you need until you get the desired result. Not to mention the detached garage. There is a tenant in the loft above...”

  “That’s fine,” Roxie said automatically. She took a peek into the dining room on the right. More sea glass. And windows. Windows everywhere—thin, tall, lovingly trimmed in a fleur-de-lis motif. An archway led into the kitchen. “Would you look at this, Briar?” Roxie asked as she spun in a circle, taking it all in. “Better Homes and Gardens better watch its back.”

  “Glass-front cabinets.” Briar sighed. “I’ve always wanted glass-front cabinets. And double ovens. And stone!” She ran her hand over the stonework surrounding what had likely once been a wood-burning hearth and stove. “I could die here.”

  Vera laughed. “You haven’t seen the living room.”

  Here the clack of Roxie’s heels echoed off high-arched ceilings. She’d thought old houses such as this were built tight with rooms closed off from one another under squatted ceilings. But this house breathed, the living room spilling up into the second-floor landing. More windows here, high and arched with transoms peering out onto a charming patio with a bricked fire pit. There was a fenced-in backyard that would be green and fragrant in spring and summer. Roxie stopped in front of the center window. Framed between the panes was one of those rare Japanese magnolias overflowing with plump pink blossoms.

  Briar leaned toward Roxie’s shoulder and lowered her voice. “If you get this house, I’ll be insanely jealous, but at least I can visit. Or live in the kitchen. I’ll cook. Cole can do yard work. We could make it work.”

  “It’s mine,” Roxie chanted. “All mine, I tell you.” She blinked, cleared her throat and shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t know where that came from. I haven’t seen the upstairs and I know. I just know, Briar. It’s like knowing you want to marry someone.”

  Briar smiled at her. “You’re glowing. It’s good to see your glow again, Roxie.”

  Roxie whirled around to Vera. “I’ll take it. Can we sign now? I want to sign now.”

  Vera held up her hands. “Wait a second. You haven’t seen the bedrooms or the basement. There could be leaks. Rats the size of armadillos... And I’m your Realtor.”

  “I’ll call the roofers,” Roxie claimed. “I’ll call the Schwarzenegger of exterminators. I have to have this house, Vera. You tell me what we need to do to get this done tonight and we’ll do it.”

  Vera opened her mouth to speak, but the faint sound of Jimi Hendrix’s guitar wafted from her boho purse. She pulled out her cell phone and frowned at the caller ID screen. “So sorry. It’s my youngest. She’s flying in from Africa early tomorrow. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Roxie said.

  “Seriously,” Vera cautioned, “take a walk upstairs. Leaks and rats excluding, I’ll have the papers for you in the dining room ready to sign as soon as you’re finished.”

  As Vera answered the call, Roxie and Br
iar gleefully sprinted up the stairs to find out what other treasures the house had to offer. The stained glass was even more exquisite up close as the last wavering light of the afternoon cast rioting crystalline swaths from floor to ceiling.

  Roxie found a room to set up her sewing. Wide with the high boughs of the Japanese magnolia aligned in the single picture window, it was a creative space if she’d ever seen one. There were built-in shelves where she could arrange fabrics and an alcove perfect for her sewing and embroidery equipment.

  In the master suite, she gawked at the turtleback ceiling...and frowned over an overlarge television set up on an otherwise gorgeous antique dresser. The dresser could stay. The television...it stuck out like a sore thumb. The bed was built up on a platform to distinguish it from the sitting area. She’d trade the bed frame for the iron one she’d bought after the divorce. It would work well with the curlicue iron accents she’d seen throughout the house.

  Briar, Harmony now snoozing on her shoulder, stepped out of the walk-in closet across the room. “There’s enough room in here for the Duchess of Devonshire’s trousseau. Wigs and all.”

  “Don’t tease me,” Roxie advised, moving toward the closet door to peek inside, too.

  “Have you checked out the bathroom?” Briar asked, pointing to the closed pocket doors. She reached for the slight parting between them. “If there’s a whirlpool tub, I might have to hate on you a little bit.”

  “Fair enough,” Roxie said as she peered over Briar’s shoulder.

  Briar slid the pocket doors back. They whispered along the tracks in the wall. Steam greeted them. Roxie squinted through it. Just as Briar tensed beside her and reached out to grip her arm, a long form took shape before her. “Um, who...”

  The intruder stood at one of the matching sinks, a razor raised to his chin. As the doors clacked against the jamb, he jerked and grunted a pained cry. He turned partway toward them, his hand clasped to his chin. Briar’s gasp reverberated off the periwinkle tiles and Roxie exclaimed, “Byron!”