by Linda Seed
“Oh,” Kate said, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re gorgeous.”
“God. You really are,” Rose added.
“Ryan’s going to swallow his tongue,” Lacy said.
“You’ll do,” the stylist said with a grin, nodding.
“Go stand near the window,” the photographer said, pointing. “That dress is going to look great with the light filtering in.”
One by one, the rest of them sat still for the stylist while Gen was busy with the photographer. They had their hair and makeup done, and they got into their own dresses. The strapless, sweetheart necklines mimicked Gen’s gown, though the flowing, tea-length skirts were a fraction of the volume. The blush color was somewhere between pink and peach.
“Okay, let’s get this thing done,” Lacy declared with hearty determination when they were all ready.
“Not so fast,” the photographer said. “I need some shots of all of you celebrating before the ceremony. Everybody get a champagne flute.”
“I’m not drinking,” Rose said.
“Pretend,” the photographer ordered.
The ceremony was held in the lodge garden, on a emerald green lawn with a white gazebo. Pine trees behind the gazebo created a curtain of lush green, and on both sides, flowers bloomed in riotous colors.
Will stood in a tuxedo before the rows of chairs filled with guests, Daniel on one side of him, Jackson on the other. He peered around Jackson at Ryan, to see how the groom was doing. The poor guy looked nervous, and he was sweating. It wasn’t that hot out.
“Ry. Take a breath,” Will told him.
Ryan glanced at him, then let out the chestful of air he’d been holding.
Jackson chuckled and smacked Ryan on the back. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said.
“I don’t know why he’s nervous,” Daniel muttered, pulling at his shirt collar. “I’m the one who’s got to flirt with the stalker from hell.”
“Have I said thank you?” Will wanted to know.
“You have. But I’m thinking you’re gonna have to say it again.”
Will wanted to focus on what Daniel was saying, but his attention kept drifting across the aisle, where the women stood, looking like spring flowers in their silky, flowing dresses.
Rose looked like just like her name—like a blush-pink rose. He could barely keep his eyes off her.
“Dude. She’s still going to be here after the ceremony,” Daniel murmured.
“Yeah,” Will reassured himself. “Yeah, she will.”
The chatter died down when the string quartet began to play “Ode to Joy,” which Gen had chosen as her processional rather than the usual “Wedding March.” The guests stood, and everyone turned back toward the lodge.
Gen emerged on the arm of her father, a distinguished-looking, gray-haired accountant whom she rarely saw. Will noticed that Gen looked scared, and maybe a little sick. But then she paused at the foot of the stone pathway that led to the gazebo, lifted her eyes, and saw Ryan.
Then, the most remarkable thing happened. She transformed. The fear and tension simply drained out of her, and she smiled with a radiance that was purely magical. Will glanced over at Ryan and saw something similar on his friend’s face. If there had been nerves and doubt before, now there was nothing but happiness. It seemed to Will that the guests, the groomsmen, and the bridesmaids—hell, even the lodge and everything around it—could have vanished into vapor at that moment and Gen and Ryan wouldn’t have noticed. Or cared.
Will looked over at Rose and saw her dabbing at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief she’d kept tucked in her hand. She looked up and saw him, and something passed between them. Some kind of knowing—the certainty that whatever her protests might have been, whatever reservations either of them might have had, the two of them simply were.
He was counting on it.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was a good thing the photographer had waited until after the ceremony to take the group shots, because before the wedding, Gen had looked ill. Afterward, she glowed with joy.
There were shots with the whole wedding party, shots with the wedding party plus the parents of the bride and groom, shots with only the women, shots with only the men, and shots with only the bride and groom. Just when Will thought they’d exhausted every possible combination of people, the photographer started taking shots with the bride plus maid of honor, and the groom plus best man, and he was certain they would all grow old here and possibly die of natural causes waiting for the photo session to end.
“Hey,” he said to Rose during a moment when neither of them was required to be on camera. “You look …” He paused because there wasn’t an adequate word for how she looked.
“Like one of those meringue cookies? Because I think I look like one of those meringue cookies,” she replied.
“I was going to say you look beautiful.”
She started to say something—probably one of those clever Rose retorts—but then apparently thought better of it. She blushed slightly. “Oh.”
“Can I give you a ride to the reception?” he asked.
“Uh … no. Thanks. I have my car.”
“I can bring you back here to pick it up afterward.”
“Thanks, but I also have my mom. She came with me.”
“Oh.”
He knew he’d seen something in her eyes during the ceremony—something soft, an acknowledgment of her feelings for him—but now he wondered whether he’d imagined it. He sensed a definite cold front coming off of her now. Was this still about Melinda?
“Rose …”
“I think Gen needs me over by the fountain.” With a swish of her skirt, she walked away from him.
He watched her go and thought this was exactly where she belonged: amid a garden in bloom.
When Will arrived at the old barn at the Delaney Ranch, the place was transformed. Yards of silky fabric had been hung from the rafters along with the fairy lights he and Daniel had put up, and the golden afternoon light streamed in through the doors and windows to bathe the dining tables and the dance floor.
The tables, each covered in white linen, were laid with gleaming china and silverware, with centerpieces of blush roses and dozens of votive candles in glass holders that caught the light from the flames.
At one end of the barn, a table was set up with the wedding cake, and Will went over to marvel at it. The cake, a three-tiered affair, appeared to be wrapped in delicate layers of white silk tinged in pink. On closer inspection, he saw that the silk was made of frosting. How in the world did they do that? Pink and white roses peeked out of the silk, and Will supposed they had to be frosting, too, though he’d be hard pressed to tell that they weren’t real.
The roses made him think of his Rose, his delicate confection who was just as deceptive because she wasn’t really delicate at all.
He looked around to see if she’d arrived yet, but he knew she hadn’t. If she had, he’d have felt her. Sensed her.
“Can I help you find your seat, sir?” A waiter in a crisp uniform appeared at his side.
“Uh … sure. Thanks.” Will gave his name, and the guy walked him through the tables toward the big one at the front, closest to the dance floor.
He saw from the place cards that Rose was seated beside him, and he was relieved. He’d wondered if she would pressure Gen to put her somewhere else.
He’d visited the bar and was sitting in his spot at the table with a drink in his hand—something called a Gentini that had been invented just for the occasion—when Rose arrived and plopped down in the chair next to him.
“Okay. I’m ready to be your fake date. I said I’d do it, so I’m doing it. Is that bitch Melinda here yet?” She looked around the room for the offending party.
“I don’t want you to be my fake date,” Will said.
“What? I thought you did. Because otherwise, Melinda—”
“I want you to be my real date. And not just today, either. I want you to be my real date today,
and tomorrow, and the day after that.”
That wall she put up sometimes—the one that separated her from the rest of the world—came up again. He was sorry to see it, but then again, he was up to the challenge of bringing it down.
“I’d better make sure my mom is getting settled,” she said, and then she got up and drifted across the room, away from him, leaving him to feel her absence like an ache in his chest.
Everyone had arrived and the reception was fully underway by four thirty. It started with milling around, drinks being served, small talk. By five o’clock dinner was served, and by six, the plates had all been cleared, the first dance by the happy couple was complete, and the other couples had started to fill the dance floor.
Will was a little bit drunk. Not very—he thought it unseemly to get drunk at a wedding reception—but he’d had enough to take the edge off. And he’d needed to take the edge off, considering that his ex-girlfriend and his current girlfriend—whether she wanted to admit it or not—were in the same room, a situation that had probably never ended well for anyone.
“Come on. Let’s dance.” He stood in his place at the table and extended his hand to Rose. Everyone else at the head table was already up and dancing.
She eyed him with suspicion.
“Come on,” he said again. “You agreed to be my fake date. What kind of fake date would you be if you refused to dance with me?”
She scowled at him, then finally put her hand in his and stood. They walked, hand in hand, to the dance floor, and he brought her to him and put his arms around her.
He felt better immediately.
“God, you smell good,” he said. Like lilacs and vanilla.
“Well, I’m not doing it for you,” she muttered.
“Oh, I know. Because we’re not dating.”
“That’s right.”
The band Gen and Ryan had chosen specialized in music from the forties. Right now they were playing “Dearly Beloved”:
Tell me that it’s true
Tell me you agree
I was meant for you
You were meant for me
Will closed his eyes, leaned into her, and breathed in her scent.
That was when Will felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up, emerging from another world where only he and Rose lived, and saw Chris standing beside him, looking at home in his tuxedo.
“May I cut in?”
At that moment, Will wanted to deck him. But since that wouldn’t be good behavior for a groomsman, he merely gave a weak smile and nodded.
“Of course.”
Rose looked just as dismayed as he did—that had to be a good sign—but Chris smiled at her and extended his arms for her to step into. “You look lovely, Rose,” he said.
The surge of jealousy that ran through him was an ugly thing, an irrational, bitter thing. And suddenly, Will understood how Rose must have felt the other night when he’d left the cottage with Melinda.
“Dance with me, Will?”
He turned, and of course it was Melinda. Where in the world was Daniel? Will looked frantically around the room and saw him near the cake table, a drink in his hand, chatting up an attractive blonde.
What kind of wingman abandoned you for a blonde?
“I can’t,” Will told Melinda. “I have to … help Ryan with something.”
She raised her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Really? Because Ryan doesn’t look like he needs help.” She indicated the head table, where Ryan had gathered Gen into his lap and was whispering something into her ear.
That left only Jackson as a possible rescuer, but he appeared to be deep in conversation with Ryan’s mother.
Melinda was wearing a red dress that was so tight and low-cut it could have been an Ace bandage that was too small for some kind of whole-body injury. She gave Will a predatory grin.
He was starting to sweat.
“I have to … visit the men’s room. If you’ll excuse me.”
Having to use the john was a lame excuse—and a predictable one—but it was the best he could come up with right now.
There were no regular men’s rooms, as this was a barn, after all. So he went outside to where the portable restrooms—two trailers, one men’s, one women’s—had been set up.
He walked up the ramp and into the men’s trailer, feeling Melinda’s eyes on him as he went. Once he got inside, he hoped there was someone in there who could help him by creating some sort of diversion. A small fire, maybe. But the only person in there was one of Ryan’s nephews.
The little guy—the older one, Michael—zipped up as he came out of a stall.
“Hi, Will!” he said with enthusiasm.
“Hi, Michael. You having fun?”
“Sure. My mom says I can have cake pretty soon.”
“That’ll be good.”
“Yeah.”
The kid started to head straight for the door, and Will stopped him. “I’ll bet your mom would like it if you washed your hands.”
“Oh.” He looked embarrassed. “Yeah.”
When Michael ran out of the trailer, thumping his way down the ramp, Will was left alone. Melinda was out there, if not right outside the trailer, then somewhere. What was he going to do? He could stay in here, he supposed. The portable bathrooms were nicer than he’d ever imagined such a thing could be. They were clean, brightly lit, and accessible to the disabled, and there was even a mirror over the sink and a vase of flowers in a holder attached to one wall. A person could easily wait out a crazy ex-girlfriend here.
“Don’t be a wuss,” he told himself. “Don’t hide in the bathroom like a wuss.” So he gathered himself, washed his hands—because it seemed like the thing to do—and went out of the trailer.
She was waiting for him right at the foot of the ramp.
“Now we can have that dance,” she said. From the look on her face, she might as well have said, Now I can chew your face off like a werewolf.
Neither prospect seemed appealing.
“I’m not going to dance with you, Melinda.”
She put on a show of looking hurt. “Why not?”
“Because he came here with me,” Rose said. She’d emerged from nowhere, looking radiant in the glow of the sunset.
“He didn’t, actually,” Melinda observed. “He came here alone. You came with your mother.”
“It’s kind of creepy that you know that,” Rose said. “Will. Come back inside.” She held out her hand to him.
Will reached for it—her hand seemed like a lifeline—but Melinda stepped in between them, facing Rose.
“He’s going to dance with me,” Melinda said, her voice fierce.
“Like hell he is.”
This is bad, Will thought, not for the first time that night.
“Look. Melinda. Can we just—”
“What the hell is your story?” Rose demanded. Her arms were crossed defiantly, her face stormy. “He’s not interested. Not. Interested. Why can’t you get that?”
“Huh. That’s odd. He seemed interested when we were together at Cooper House the other night. Isn’t that right, Will? The observatory roof didn’t get fixed, but all things considered, it was worth it.”
Will felt the blood drain out of his face. This was worse than he’d feared it would be. Would Rose believe her? Surely Rose wouldn’t believe her. If she did …
“You lying bitch,” Rose spat at her.
Will was vaguely aware that someone else had come out here, but he was so focused on Melinda and Rose that he didn’t know who. So when Melinda reared back and slapped Rose across the face—a blow that made a resounding thwack and left Rose with a red handprint on her cheek—he was surprised when a ball of coffee-colored taffeta flew out of the shadows and launched itself at Melinda.
The taffeta ball hit Melinda with surprising force, and she stumbled back with a shriek.
“Mom!” Rose cried out.
“Mrs. Watkins!” Will said.
“Get your hands off my daughter or I’ll tear
you apart,” Pamela said, squaring her stance in front of Melinda. “How dare you hit a pregnant woman!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“You know?” Rose said, stunned from the pain of the slap and also from the sudden revelation that her secret wasn’t a secret.
“Of course I do,” Pamela said, as though that were obvious.
“She’s pregnant?” Melinda demanded. Then she scoffed. “It’s probably not even Will’s.”
Rose launched herself at Melinda, nearly knocking Pamela—who was standing between them—to the ground. She felt hands on her as Will held her back from ripping the bitch’s arms off. Melinda, sensibly, had backed a few paces away.
“What’s going on out here?” Chris emerged from the barn and walked toward them, a concerned look on his face. “I couldn’t find Melinda, and then I heard yelling.”
“What’s going on here, Mr. Mills, is that your … girlfriend ”—Pamela said the word as though it tasted bad—“attacked my daughter.”
“Who’s pregnant,” Will added helpfully.
Suddenly, it hit Rose that Will hadn’t been surprised to hear that particular piece of news.
“You knew too?” she said, looking at him in wonder.
“Of course I knew.”
“You hit Rose?” Chris said to Melinda.
“She called me a bitch.”
“You are a bitch,” Rose said.
Melinda bared her teeth and reached out to swing at Rose again, but Will stepped in front of Rose to take the blow, if need be, and Pamela shoved Melinda backward mightily before she could land another slap.
At that moment, Daniel strolled out of the barn, looking happy and slightly drunk. “Hey. Where did everybody …” And then he saw them. “Oh, shit.”
“Daniel. Would you take Rose inside?” Will said.
“Yes,” Pamela added. “She’s been hit. She’s hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” Rose protested. “That skank couldn’t land a decent shot if she were trained by Mickey Goldmill.” When they all looked at her curiously, she said, “From Rocky. Burgess Meredith. Don’t you people know your movies?”