Wooing the Wedding Planner

by Amber Leigh Williams

  Through adolescence, Byron had come to rely on his parents’ combined strength. It had forged itself through Vivienne’s accident and subsequent recovery. It had proved itself again and practically saved Byron’s life when Dani lost her own. He’d never seen either of them flag once.

  The fact that his father looked like he was teetering on the edge of a breakdown made the knots of Byron’s stomach slimy. It made them multiply. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t been able to join them and Roxie in sitting. To look too closely, to see all the terrible possibilities on his father’s face that Byron had experienced and they had all witnessed years earlier... It was effort enough to keep himself from flying apart at the seams.

  He wasn’t completely convinced that he hadn’t done so already. He kept it tethered. He kept it silent, the same storm he’d felt six years ago. The one he’d come out of as a lesser version of himself. It had cost so much, too much, to become somebody new.

  Leaning against the window of the nursery, he frowned deeply. Where were the babies? Sure, it was a small town and March might not be the biggest season for births, but he’d been here long enough to see the sun go down and nearly long enough to see the next one rise, and there were still none.

  It’s not a metaphor. He repeated it to himself to make sure he understood it. But like the assurance that things were going to be “all right,” it didn’t help much. He wanted to stop looking, to stop staring at the nurses who looked as if they needed something to do, but he couldn’t look away from the empty heaters and trolleys where babies should’ve been.

  First there was Vivienne, who’d learned at the age of thirteen she would never be able to carry her own children. Then him losing Dani before she could carry their baby to full term. Now Priscilla?

  Had his family not been through enough?

  The bitterness, the anger felt so much safer than helplessness. If not comforting, it was at least comfortable. He’d lived there with anger for so long; he’d left a nice little cave should he ever want to come back and visit. Breathing carefully, he felt his neck burn and the heaviness in his chest, making even the involuntary rise of his lungs and ribs feel arduous. It would be unwise to hermit inside his anger, but he could see no alternative that didn’t involve losing another large piece of himself should Priscilla or her child not come through the delivery.

  He felt a touch on his arm and jerked.

  Roxie held up her hand. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  “What are you still doing here?” he asked, pressing his brow into his hand. The window’s glass was cool under his palm but he wasn’t absorbing that cool like he needed to.

  “Waiting for news,” she said simply. She held out a thermos. “Here.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t take another caffeine hit.”

  “It’s not coffee,” she said, her voice unchanged. It was level, smooth.

  He resented her calm. He shrugged, trying to throw off the automatic irritation. It wasn’t her that bothered him. It was the situation. Repeating that to himself, he took the thermos and sniffed the opening inside the lid. “What is it?”

  “Just drink it,” she told him. “It might help.”

  It didn’t smell like liquor. Byron took a sip. His brows arched as he lowered it in surprise, swallowing the tea with ease. “Where did you get this?”

  He shrugged. “It’s Briar’s blend. I keep a few bags in my purse.”

  It was Athena’s tea. He took another sip. It hit the spot, somewhat. The heat, however, didn’t help the high-pressure situation around his collar.

  As he continued to drink, she reached out again, rubbing up and down his arm. “Are you okay?”

  He sniffed. It was a loaded question, one he couldn’t think about answering at the current moment. So he said, “You should’ve gone home hours ago. It’s after midnight. You’ve got an event at noon.”

  “I’m staying,” she told him. By her tone, she wasn’t negotiating that fact.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  She regarded him closely, searching him. When he only looked at her in challenge, she closed the space between them. “Why did you wait for me? After Georgiana’s wedding.”

  He sipped the tea, hoping it would soothe the conflict he felt between the past and the present, the old Byron—the one who had bitch-slapped him as soon as he’d seen Priscilla on the bathroom floor—versus the new Byron.

  He might have been lost in his own neuroses, but he’d seen her. He’d seen Roxie watching his parents, the unity between them. It hadn’t quite been envy on her face, though not far from it.

  Roxie longed for that natural understanding with someone. She craved the timeless intimacy that was his parents’ relationship, even as they were going through hell.

  He could see that she wanted that, the type of partnership that wasn’t weakened by the hard times but fortified by them.

  She’d told Byron she didn’t do casual and what they had together thus far wasn’t. But he realized that some part of her sought more than what they did have, much more.

  He wondered if that was what she’d come to want with him. It struck an arrow of fear in him he hadn’t seen coming. Suddenly, he was left wondering how he’d ever thought he could be more than what he was—a widower with deep-rooted issues involving commitment with women who weren’t and never would be his wife.

  The hand on his arm didn’t drop as his silence reigned between them. Instead it squeezed. “Nobody’s eaten yet. There’s a cafeteria. Why don’t I go grab something for everyone and we can all have a bite?”

  He felt sick just thinking about eating, so he shook his head, tight-lipped.

  “Okay,” she said in understanding. Again, she looked at him. She had a way—she’d always had a way—of looking into him. Deep, deep into him. “You’re exhausted. Come back and sit down with your parents. At least until we find out—”

  “No, Roxie,” he answered, firm. “I can’t eat. I can’t sit. I can’t talk. I just need to stand, right here. I just need—”

  “You just need them to be okay,” she murmured and nodded. “They will be, Byron. I know they will.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked. “Do you know what could go wrong in there? Do you have any idea?”

  “It’s easy to dwell on the negative,” she acknowledged. “I understand that. But I can’t stand to see you torturing yourself. I can’t stand to see you alone.”

  He didn’t know how else to deal with it. In her own way, she was asking him to lean on her, to open up to her. She was offering to take the brunt of whatever was eating him up from the inside out.

  If she knew how much there was to this storm, how dark and ugly it was, she wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t want to take it on. She couldn’t possibly. And he cared, damn it. He cared too much about her to let her fall victim to it.

  If he showed her, she’d run for the hills—and who could blame her?

  Movement beyond the window snagged his attention. Roxie gasped as a trio of nurses in surgical scrubs ushered in a trolley. Grim was on their heels, dressed head to toe in his OR garb. The mask was still over his mouth. When he saw them through the window, Byron saw his eyes curve in a familiar smile. He pointed to the trolley.

  A nurse moved just enough for Byron to see what was in it. Like a kid in a candy-store window, he pressed his face to the glass to get a better look.

  “It’s a girl,” Roxie breathed. She gripped Byron’s arm, dancing up and down on her toes. “Byron, it’s a girl! You have a niece. Vera! Constantine! Come see her! She’s here!”

  Byron shook his head, unable to take it all in. He looked again to Grimsby. Closer now, he saw that his friend’s eyes were watery. He removed his mask and nodded. “They made it!” he said mutely.

  “Oh.” Roxie pressed h
er hand to the glass as they wheeled the trolley over to the heaters. “Look at her. She’s gorgeous.” Glancing sideways, she tilted her head. “Byron? Are you all right?”

  He shook his head, swallowing for the third or fourth time against the lump in his throat. He backed away a step. Another.

  A long arm hooked him around his shoulders. His father stood with him. There were tears coursing down his long face. He tightened his bolstering grip. “Look at that,” he said, and laughed weakly. “That there’s a miracle. You need to see it as much as we do, son.”

  “I...” The squalling newborn calmed as she felt the warmth above her. Her eyes were closed tight and her cheeks were squished. Still, she sought the heat and the light with her upturned face, fingers wriggling, legs unfurling. Byron closed his mouth quickly. The emotions were there, looking for release and dangerously close to overspill.

  Vera was on his other side, taking his hand. “You’re an uncle,” she said. The statement sounded wondrous. She took the flask Constantine pulled from his pocket. “Opa,” she cheered once before lifting it to her mouth.

  Constantine chuckled. “You’re damn right opa.” He took a hit then tapped the flask against Byron’s front.

  Byron wrapped his fingers around it. He raised the flask in salute to Priscilla and Grim’s daughter and the next generation before tipping back the ouzo.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ROXIE KNOCKED ON the door to the Strongs’ house, carrying two new pie tins as well as two gifts. Priscilla and the baby, Evangeline, had spent a week in the hospital due to the high-risk nature of the delivery. Vera had invited Roxie to dinner for a welcome-home party. It would be the first Strong gathering, only Vivienne and Sidney absent, since the newest member of the family entered the world.

  As thrilled as she was by the invite, Roxie had toyed with the idea of not attending. It seemed so special, this first dinner together to celebrate Evangeline’s birth. She wasn’t family and, to her knowledge, she’d be the only non-family member present. Also, the invitation had come straight from Vera herself and not her son.

  Roxie juggled the boxes she held as she took off her sunglasses and slipped them into her bag. Everything had turned out okay with Priscilla and Evangeline. Priscilla’s foot was healing, though she’d been instructed to stay off it for a while—nearly impossible for a new mother. But both Priscilla’s and Grim’s mothers were helping out in that regard. Byron was also lending a hand when he could.

  More than that, Byron had been going over to the Grimsbys’ house for dinner most nights. So Roxie had stopped setting the dining room table for dinner. She’d also stopped lighting candles and playing music to await his arrival with a bottle of wine, because those same nights were the ones he stayed out late and went up to the garage loft to crash in his own bed.

  The few nights he did spend with her weren’t as easy as they had been. Conversation was stagnated over dinner. He went to bed with her after but it was quietly. And always, afterward, she found herself sleeping with her front to his back, his face to the wall.

  Somewhere around finding Priscilla on the floor and the baby’s delivery, a part of him—a large part—had closed itself off from her. But whatever he had gone through personally—how scared he’d been—it couldn’t possibly be his excuse anymore with everything turning up roses for the Strong family. Which led her to wonder precisely why was he turning away from her.

  The door opened and Vera greeted her. “So glad you’re here,” she said, welcoming her inside the house for the first time. It was very open, one room flowing into the next with few walls to separate the inhabitants from one another. There was a sign near the door with a Lewis Carroll quote: “We’re all mad here.” “Fair warning,” Vera muttered when she caught Roxie staring at it. She took some of the boxes. “We’re outside. It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yes,” Roxie agreed. “Spring’s coming.” Finally. She handed over the pie tins. “My best so far. Pecan on the bottom, lemon meringue on the top. They smell so good that I had a little brainstorm in the car on the way over here. What do you think of me combining the two fillings? It could be something like pecan-lemon-meringue surprise.”

  “I think that you’re starting to think like a master baker,” Vera commended. “These will be perfect for dinner.”

  “Don’t you mean dessert?” Roxie asked as she followed her into the kitchen.

  “Well, Con’s grilling, you see,” Vera explained. “He insisted on cooking for his granddaughter for the first time. I told him his granddaughter wouldn’t actually be eating his fare. He refused to listen. So in a half hour, we’ll be throwing away what was once a perfectly fine steak platter and serving your pie for dinner instead.”

  Roxie looked out the window onto the deck. “Um. Vera?” She pointed at the grill and the man standing in front of it with a water hose.

  Vera cursed an impressive streak when she saw the fire blazing high above the grate. Quickly, she ducked under the sink and fumbled for the fire extinguisher. “Who sold that man a bottle of lighter fluid?”

  Roxie dodged Vera’s path as she tore through the door. She barreled her husband out of the way and opened fire with white foam to keep the flames from reaching the walls of the porch. With black smoke hanging in the air, Vera turned on her husband. He spread his hands in explanation. She retaliated and an impressive argument commenced.

  Despite several minutes of scolding, Constantine used tender fingers to brush the ash from Vera’s hair. He brought her close, his charred chef’s hat bending, a top-heavy mushroom, as he leaned to her level. Roxie heard his voice drop to match his suggestive grin. Vera’s tone lost its edge. She began to laugh, brushing foam from his apron appropriately labeled NSFW. He laughed, too, until they were laughing at each other. They kissed in front of the flame-roasted steaks as bits of ash and foam floated away with the wind.

  Roxie felt the tenderness collide with her chest. She rubbed absently at her breastbone, feeling her smile fade by a margin.

  “What happened?”

  She pivoted to find Byron a few feet behind her. He carried a brown paper bag and a gift of his own. Caught, she cleared her throat. “Uh, your father. I believe he burned dinner.”

  “Huh.” And he shrugged like a near miss with a house fire was an everyday event. His gaze settled over her. He didn’t smile, but she saw his quick perusal. She’d worn a breezy floral sundress and brown wedge heels with straps that ribboned up her calves, both a taste of summer. It didn’t hurt that she knew the shoes brought attention to her legs, the gams he liked so much.

  It was a petty play, perhaps. Schoolgirl-worthy tactics. But she had to give it a shot. She needed him to decide. She couldn’t bear to wake up one more morning in sheets gone cold after another night with him. She wasn’t built for casual dating. Apparently, she wasn’t built for this new version of “cautiously noncasual” either.

  “You look nice,” he told her.

  “Thank you.” She thought she saw a flash of longing there, but he turned away to set the paper bag on the counter. She fought the urge to smooth her hands down the line of his back. What’s wrong? she’d wanted to ask him for days now. Why are you doing this? Her pulse rocked hard under the hurt she’d been downplaying, with the hope that things would change soon and he’d go back to being her Byron. “What’s in the bag?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

  “I stopped by the BBQ place,” he explained, retrieving a platter from the cupboard and dumping the scrumptious-smelling honey-BBQ chicken on it. “Figured we’d need a backup plan.”

  “This happens a lot around here,” she guessed. When he only hummed in answer, she went on, “It’s a surprise Vera doesn’t have a contingency plan of her own.”

  “She loves him,” Byron said, snagging a Stella Artois from the fridge. He cracked the cap with his fist. “Want one?”

  �
��No,” she declined. After setting the gifts on the table behind her, she clasped her hands together at her waist. “Byron. Can we talk?”

  “The others will be getting here soon,” he reminded her.

  Just end it. The errant thought entered her head with another pained twang. Why drag it out? Why put me through this? Why sleep with me then turn cold again by morning? The questions screamed in her head.

  This was his parents’ house. More, it was a party for Priscilla and Evangeline. Later.

  He was right. It wasn’t long before the Grimsbys arrived along with Tobias’s mother, a thin woman in her late sixties who smiled warmly and spoke softly. Outside on the chaise longue where they’d found a spot of sunshine, she spoke kindly to Roxie. “When Tobias told me Byron had found himself another girl, I didn’t know whether to thank the heavens or pass out cold.”

  Roxie tried to conjure a genuine grin. “Which did you do?”

  “I wound up thanking the good Lord after my youngest son, Michael, picked me up off the floor,” Mrs. Grimsby admitted with a great laugh.

  Roxie, too, giggled. She laughed more as she sat down with the rest of the party around the picnic table on the lawn overlooking a stretch of blue bay. Shadows were long in the afternoon. Baby Evangeline took a turn in each person’s arms. When she started to fuss in Byron’s, he got up instantly and walked off to find another sunny spot closer to the water. He turned out of the cool breeze, hunching his shoulders so they shielded the baby girl from the chill and bouncing her gently in his arms.

  This hurt, too, watching him. Even the simple pleasure of being with his family was beginning to pain her. They made her feel like a part of it, and pretending that things hadn’t gone puzzlingly stilted between her and Byron hurt. The BBQ was great, but as anxious as she’d been to try it, she declined a slice of pie as everyone else made quick work of the pecan and lemon meringue.

  They passed gifts to the new parents. Oohs and aahs winged around the table at the various springy baby outfits. In addition, Evangeline received a silver spoon from the Strongs complete with the Greek key motif. From Mrs. Grimsby, she received a crocheted blanket so beautiful Roxie marveled over the handiwork. Tobias’s mother chuckled over her offer of a job. From Byron, Evangeline received a pair of infant-sized shoes and a book of children’s poetry. Roxie gleaned that there was a significance to the gift that she couldn’t quantify.