“You bet.” Jessy struck a pose. “Okay, bows or no bows?”
“Bows,” they answered together.
“Dress okay?”
Lucy elbowed Ilena. “I think Jessy’s dressing for more than a wedding.”
“Yeah, I bet she’s got something set up with the best man afterward.”
“I’d set something up with the best man if he ever gave me a second look,” Lucy said enviously.
“I can only dream of setting something up at the moment,” Ilena said on a sigh as she patted her belly. “I bet she’s wearing her sexiest underwear.”
Jessy gave them an arch look in the mirror while fastening one ankle strap, then the other. “You’re assuming I’m wearing underwear. Besides, all my undies are sexy.”
This time it was Lucy who sighed. “I miss sexy underwear.”
“Me, too,” Ilena agreed.
Jessy took a long last look in the mirror. Her dress was a respectable length, form-fitting, a bright red, green, and sapphire print, and she’d laid out a green shawl to take. The odds of getting cold in the church were slim—she swore sometimes she felt the fires of hell inside sacred walls—but she wanted to be prepared for whichever restaurant Dalton had chosen for dinner.
“Okay, girls. I guess I’m ready. Unless—” She reached for another dress, the only shade of pink her red hair would tolerate, but Lucy pulled it from her hands.
“You look perfect, honey. Besides, no matter which dress you wear, Dalton won’t be thinking about anything besides getting you out of it.”
Oh, Jessy sincerely hoped she wasn’t the only one thinking about it. Even if they didn’t do it tonight. As long as he wanted to, she’d be happy. For a while, at least.
When they got to the church ten minutes later, the Andersen clan filled the first four rows on the left side, looking less like a scientific convention and more like a wedding party. “Can you believe Carly’s whole family came out from Utah?” she murmured as they walked down the aisle to join the other sisters.
Both Lucy and Ilena gave her questioning looks. “Your family would come from Georgia if you got married again, wouldn’t they?”
It was obvious in their expressions that their families would. There was a reason, Jessy reminded herself, why she rarely discussed the Wilkses with her friends.
Though she had no problem telling Dalton all about them.
With a shrug, she said, “My family wasn’t at my first wedding. They didn’t come for Aaron’s funeral, either. In fact, they never met him.”
“Oh, Jessy.” Lucy hugged her and Ilena squeezed her hand before they sat down.
As everyone exchanged greetings and compliments on outfits, Jessy gazed at the stained-glass windows and examined her feelings about the exchange. Most notable was the absence of embarrassment. Her cheeks weren’t flushed, and her gut wasn’t knotted. She didn’t feel like the object of pity or like she was some huge failure whose own family didn’t give a damn about her. Just sympathy. Her friends felt bad for her, not bad about her.
The knowledge created a small well of pleasure deep inside her.
The wedding began exactly on time—in a military world, punctuality counted—and Jessy pulled her small camera from her purse. Carly had hired a photographer, but there were a couple shots Jessy specifically wanted.
The men entered from a side hall. Dane and Keegan wore their dress uniforms, drawing sighs from practically every woman in the church, while the minister and Dalton wore suits. She saved her own sighs for Dalton: tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, so damn solemn he just about broke her heart.
What was he thinking about? Remembering his own wedding to Sandra? Hoping Carly and Dane found a happier ending than he had? Was he blue? Wishing he’d been one of the lucky ones? Lost in bittersweet memories?
As if drawn by her attention, he turned his head, met her gaze, and smiled. It was small, private, just for her, and it promised more.
Her breath caught in her chest as her heart quietly, delicately broke, but in a good way. Jessy Lawrence, who’d sworn never to love a man again, never to risk disappointing another man, was in love with this man.
And she had just enough faith to believe he might love her back, at least a bit.
The knowledge made her feel as if she’d just gotten a little bit happier, a little bit shinier, and a whole lot more normal.
The organist launched into the “Bridal Chorus,” and everyone automatically turned toward the back of the church except Jessy. She focused the camera on Dane, waiting for that instant when Carly entered the sanctuary on her father’s arm. She didn’t need to look for herself or to hear her friends’ sighs. The moment was obvious in the emotions that crossed Dane’s face. Love, of course. Devotion. Commitment. Peace. Not just happiness but pure joy. And best of all: awe at this new blessing in his life.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Jessy snapped rapid-fire, sure that one of the dozen or more shots would be perfect.
Therese and Lisa were radiant in off-the-shoulder dresses the orange-reddish hue of late-fall maple leaves. Carly, of course, was simply beautiful. Her dress bared her shoulders, as well, a creamy-tannish-bronzish taupe that hugged her curves and ended a few inches above her knees, lovely, elegant, and oh, so happy.
The music was fitting; there was no rumbling between the flower girl and the ring bearer, no stumbling over the vows. It was romantic and perfect and so well deserved by both bride and groom that all the margarita girls were sniffling by the time the minister made his pronouncement that Dane and Carly were now husband and wife. The sisters’ side of the house punctuated the kiss with envious, happy sighs.
As the recessional started, Jessy swiped at her eyes, then lifted the camera again. She began snapping shots the moment Carly and Dane started toward the back and didn’t stop until Therese and Keegan had passed their row. The picture she’d really wanted had come in the middle: Dalton escorting Lisa, his steps slowing slightly as they approached, his gaze shifting to look straight at Jessy.
This time he didn’t smile. He simply looked, and even through the protection of the camera, it was a look that reached somewhere way deep inside her and made her feel breathless. Nervous. A little bit scared. A month ago, a look like that would have sent her running to the nearest bar. A look like that promised a hell of a lot more than she’d wanted or deserved or could handle.
Now her mouth was watering. Her insides were quivering. She was damn near shaking from need, but not for liquor. It took her a moment to fumble the camera back into its case, then her purse. Another moment to assess whether her legs were steady enough to support her. Another to find the breath to actually push to her feet and balance on her heels.
The celebration moved to the reception hall, where the cake held the place of honor. It came from CaraCakes, made to Carly’s specifications: the round bottom layer with both cake and frosting caramel-flavored, the square center layer carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and the round top layer caramel again. Amid the frosting swirls, curlicues, and flowers nestled handmade sea salt caramels, Carly’s only vice before Dane. I knew I loved him when I shared my Mags’ Mojos with him, she’d said.
“Aw, man. And here I’ve been so good on my diet.” Lucy was looking at the cake with the same greediness Jessy would have felt if confronted by a champagne fountain.
Jessy slid her arm around her waist. “I don’t know what it’s like for you,” she said softly, “if a little piece is okay or if that’ll only lead to you wiping out the entire bakery case at CaraCake’s on the way home. If it were alcohol, one sip and I would wake up tomorrow morning with a hangover and no clue about what I’d done.”
“Is it rationalizing to say it’s a wedding, a special day, made for celebrating?”
“I don’t know. I think—for me, at least—I have to redefine ‘celebrating’ so it doesn’t involve drinking.”
“Or eating.” Lucy’s voice was soft, thoughtful. “They say to be successful at losing weight, you have
to find out why you eat. I’ve been on enough diets to tell you that. I eat when I’m happy, nervous, excited, celebrating, sad, tired, angry, lonely, bored, heartbroken…It’s my response to everything.”
Jessy had it easier in that regard. She only tried to drink away the dark emotions, to compensate for the fact that she was a fraud and all-around disappointment. Lately, though, she hadn’t felt so much a loser. She still found herself fighting cravings, still held on by her fingertips sometimes, and savored the thought of a margarita, a beer, or Patrón the way she imagined Lucy savored the temptation of chocolate. But she hadn’t given in yet.
Then she rephrased that. She hadn’t given in, period. Not yet, as in likely to happen. She was strong. She believed in herself. More important, other people believed in her. How could she fail with her sisters behind her…and Dalton ahead of her?
* * *
Celebrations didn’t have to be about food. Lucy kept reminding herself of that throughout the reception, along with the fact that she was going out to dinner with Ben again tonight. He was returning to Tulsa the next day—said he’d been away from the office too long—and his sisters were coming tomorrow morning to spend the day with Patricia, just the four of them.
Lord, how she hated to see him go. It wasn’t far in terms of miles, but in terms of their lives…He had an everyday ordinary life that she wasn’t a part of. Though she knew from experience that absence made the heart fonder, she’d also seen plenty of instances where absence had made the heart look closer to home for someone who could share every part of your life, not just weekends and holidays.
But Ben had said he would come back. He’d mentioned a restaurant in Tulsa that he wanted to take her to. Asked if she liked the Drillers, talked about the great farmers’ market on Cherry Street, the new art gallery near his loft, his favorite jazz club that she would enjoy.
He wanted to see her again, and that fact eased the fluttering in her stomach and strengthened her will to avoid the cake. Sure, it would only be one little piece—and, of course, a couple of decadent caramels. Ten, twelve bites max, and probably a week’s worth of two-a-day walks to burn off the calories versus finding the thin, pretty Lucy still living inside her. Oh, yeah, no contest…even though she couldn’t watch her friends eat their own cake and caramels without drooling inside.
Sitting with her back to the food table, she let a mantra run through her head: Remember how much better you’ll feel, how much better you’ll look, how much prettier you’ll be. Sometimes in weak moments, she got on the Internet and browsed websites that didn’t even carry her size, looking over all the cool, skimpy, fitted, adorable clothes that she would be able to wear again. No more shapeless dresses, elastic waists, or ill-fitting garments to try to hide her body. No more mortification at even the idea of being seen naked by a man.
And sexy undies, she thought with a glance at Jessy. She really did miss those.
Low music played over the sound system, jazz, Wayman Tisdale, she thought. Mike had been a fan of his basketball playing at OU, then the pros; she’d loved his music. Like Mike, Wayman had died far too young, but he’d left an incredible legacy of music.
Though the room wasn’t officially set up for dancing, Therese and Keegan had claimed a space for themselves. They didn’t need much, since they were barely moving. All that mattered to them was being in each other’s arms.
“I miss dancing,” Fia said with a sigh.
“J’Myel wouldn’t slow dance. His moves were too cool and energetic to contain with a slow beat.” Bennie smiled wistfully. “Truth was, he looked like a spastic jackrabbit on the dance floor. Mama Maudene told me don’t let the fool dance at our wedding, but I couldn’t have stopped him for nothing.” She laughed. “It was a sight.”
“Joshua and I only danced together once,” Marti said. “On our wedding night, in our hotel room. I couldn’t wear any of the pretty shoes I’d taken on our honeymoon because my bruised toes could only stand flip-flops. I never asked him to dance again.”
A few moments later, Mr. and Mrs. Lowry cleared out their own space, followed by Lisa Andersen and her husband. Lucy kept waiting for Dalton to come claim Jessy—he hadn’t taken his gaze from her since they’d entered the reception hall—but he kept his distance, though they were exchanging looks, furtive, intimate, private. Yep, Lucy and Ilena had been right. The handsome cowboy was definitely getting lucky tonight.
Picking up her bottle of water, its label commemorating the day, Lucy raised it to her girls. “Here’s to Carly and Dane and to the happiest day in the last six years of my life. Let’s keep the celebrations coming, okay?”
With laughter and responses ranging from hear, hear to you bet!, they tapped bottles, then drank. In that moment, not one of them looked as if she had a care in the world. The grief and the sorrow were gone—not forgotten, but not so near the surface, either—and they were just dear friends being friends.
She was so lucky to be a part of them.
* * *
Dalton thought he was just about free to go when the photographer called the wedding party back for pictures, first in the sanctuary, then outside in the warm sun. He hadn’t had to hold a smile for such a long time that his face muscles were starting to protest when the guy decided ten thousand shots were enough.
Finally he could slip out of his jacket. His cattle’s black-and-white coats might keep them warm in winter and cool in summer, but he was about to dissolve into a giant drop of sweat. As the rest of the guests came out of the church to say good-bye to the happy couple, he loosened his tie, then saw Jessy, standing in the shade of an oak, arms folded over her middle, watching him.
God, she’d been watching him all through the reception, and him her. He couldn’t say why he hadn’t approached her, asked her to share a piece of cake, talk with him, dance with him. Then his gut clenched hard, his chest tightening, and he remembered: because he would have spontaneously combusted, and wouldn’t that have been an ugly page in Dane and Carly’s wedding album? From the moment he’d walked into the church and seen her sitting there all beautiful and sexy and focused on him, all he could think was, Is it time? Please, can it be time?
He was surprised God hadn’t struck him down where he stood.
It was stupid, he thought as he walked to her. He was thirty-two years old. He’d been married. He’d had sex with his share of women. Hell, he’d had sex with this woman. But he hadn’t known then what he knew now. Then it had been horniness and loneliness, and any woman who persisted until he was drunk would have satisfied. Now it was…
Well, he didn’t know what it was, exactly. Important. They had something special, a second chance for both of them to make things right, to make each other right. Something to not screw up.
Good job of giving yourself a case of performance anxiety, buddy.
Then he got close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume, and his entire body reacted with a jerk. The only anxiety there was what if it was too soon for her and then how long would he have to wait.
“Didn’t I tell you not to steal attention from the bride?” he murmured when he reached her.
“Nobody noticed.”
“Yeah, the four scientists from Utah were struck dumb through the entire reception.”
“It was probably just the shoes. They were trying to figure out the whole height of the shoes, shape of the feet, impossible to balance thing.”
“Yeah, honey, they weren’t looking at your shoes.” One hand lightly touching her back, he nudged her forward. “Go join your friends. I don’t know about Carly, but Dane’s anxious to get going.” And so am I.
Her eyes, the exact perfect shade of green for her red hair and delicate skin, locked with his. “Frankly, I prefer to have flowers handed to me, preferably already in a container with water. Not lobbed in my direction like a live grenade.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” He nudged her again. “Go so you can get in on the group hug.”
“How do you know there’ll be a
group hug?”
He rolled his gaze to the clear blue sky. “You women hug. A lot.”
With a wry look, she handed him her purse, then wound through the guests to join the margarita girls. Keegan, holding his daughter and trailed by a teenage girl and a boy a few years younger, moved over to share the shade. “You understand the point of throwing perfectly good flowers?”
“Nope.”
“Me, either,” Keegan replied. Taking a cue from him, the little girl shook her head vigorously. “Me, neither,” she added. “We plant flowers.”
While the women got set up, joking and calling, Keegan shifted the girl to his other arm. “These are Therese’s and my kids, Mariah, Abby, and Jacob. This is Dalton Smith. You can call him Mr. Dalton or Mr. Smith.”
Dalton vaguely remembered kids calling his grandfather Mr. Doug. It felt old-fashioned, but he liked the connection.
“Where’s your uniform, Mr. Dalton?” Mariah asked, playing with the ribbons attached to her father’s jacket.
“I don’t wear a uniform. I’m a rancher.”
Abby shifted her gaze his way. “You have horses?”
“Palominos. Their coat’s about the color of your hair.”
Her features narrowed as if she were plotting a way to wrangle an invitation to see them. Kids and horses…some things never went out of style. If it was okay with her mother, sometime he’d have Jessy invite them out.
Raised voices from the gathering on the lawn drew their attention to the women. Carly stood a few yards from them, arm drawn back, then she threw the flowers directly at Jessy. Instead of ducking—or catching—them, Jessy bounced them into a high arc straight at Dalton.
Keegan and the kids backed away, leaving him no choice but to catch them. When he did so, Jessy smiled smugly before diving into the group hug. After crying, laughing, and whispering, they freed Carly to join Dane in his pickup, then Jessy strolled toward him. “Did I mention I used to play volleyball? I may have been short, but my spikes were deadly.”
A Love to Call Her Own Page 23