Wrong Dress, Right Guy

by Shirley Hailstock

  Fletcher’s shop sold an assortment of unique items, from greeting cards to Swarovski Crystal. Some of the objets d’art were hard to find in other places. They were so beautiful and different.

  “Fletcher, what is this?” she asked, opening the newspaper as she entered his shop. Thankfully, the place was empty.

  He smiled broadly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “You know I’m not engaged. How could you put this in the paper? And without telling me.”

  “I promise, I didn’t know Sonia was going to write that up.”

  “Fletcher, she’s a reporter. What did you think she would do?”

  “I thought she’d give me some free advertising. Maybe a few people from the highway would stop in on their way to or from home. Maybe they would buy a few things.”

  “People, like from, say Boston.” She gave him her best smile.

  “Them, too,” he agreed, scratching his head a little nervously.

  “And that’s why it states prominently that I am a former TV personality from WBSN in Boston.” She should be glad she wasn’t referred to as a weather girl. “And there’s nothing about me being employed with the National Weather Service in a very well-respected position.”

  “That’s probably because the story is about the invitations we provide.”

  “Then why is my name on it and the catch phrase, Groom: TBA?”

  He tried not to smile, but the corners of his lips turned up. “It was too good a phrase to bypass. And the offer is still open. You find a man to put on that invitation and I’ll make up as many as you need—no charge.”

  He raised his hands and shook his head at the same time. The bell above the door rang and Fletcher immediately left her to take care of his customer. Cinnamon stood there several moments. In the background she could hear the muted sound of Fletcher’s voice transacting a sale.

  The humor of the situation hit her again. A bubble of laughter caught in her throat and she tried to hold it, but she couldn’t. Soon she was smiling. She put her hand up to cover her mouth and turned to leave.

  Mac stood behind her. He had a small box in his hand which he put in his pocket. She hadn’t seen him come in the store, but there were several people browsing now.

  “I suppose that newspaper article strikes you as laughable, too,” he said, looking down at the paper she had left on the counter.

  “Yes,” she giggled. “It does. It would be even funnier if we put your name next to the word groom. Shall I call Fletcher and give him—”

  His face went dark. “Don’t even joke about that,” he interrupted. His body tightened. Everything about him seemed to recoil. His hands grabbed her upper arms.

  “Mac.” She wiggled herself free of his grip. “Give it a rest. It was just a joke.”

  “You know how I feel about weddings. I don’t joke about them.”

  “I suppose you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Writing not going well?”

  “As a matter of fact, it isn’t. I guess I got too used to writing at Zahara’s.”

  Cinnamon stiffened. That was not going to happen again. She was not that neighborly. He could not use a room in her house. It might help his writing, but it would destroy her peace of mind. Each time she saw him, her heartbeat increased and she wouldn’t even think what would happen to her blood pressure with him in the house.

  “I thought your show was off the cuff. What are you writing?”

  “The discussion is spontaneous, but I have to ask questions, know the backgrounds and history of the subject.”

  “So you’re writing notes?”

  “Not exactly. While the show might look spontaneous, it’s well coordinated and I’m one of the writers.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find your inspiration soon and the words will flow fast and furiously.” She wasn’t even going to entertain the obvious solution to his dilemma. It was his problem, not hers. She wasn’t going to get into it. “Excuse me, I have to go now.” Cinnamon started for the door, passing Fletcher as she went out onto the street.

  She’d been walking fast, but Mac caught up with her ten feet from the door.

  “You seem in an awful hurry.”

  “I am. I have a few things to pick up and I need to pack.” Cinnamon was in a hurry for another reason. Mac threw her equilibrium off. Even with his hands hard on her arms, she felt the tingle of arousal.

  “Leaving so soon? You haven’t decided to sell, have you?”

  “Don’t you wish?”

  “Actually, no.”

  His tone caught her attention and she looked up into his eyes. They were beautiful, dark-brown with the hint of a secret hidden in their depths. Cinnamon nearly swayed toward him.

  “Where are you going?”

  An idea came to her suddenly. So suddenly that she nearly discarded it before she let it form. She stared at Mac. He was good-looking. Not as gorgeous as Wesley Garner. But as eye candy, both men fit the bill.

  “Cinnamon?”

  “Mac, what are you doing this weekend?” The question came out in a rush. Almost as if she had to get it out before her courage deserted her.

  “What?”

  “This weekend. You said your writing isn’t going well. Do you think you can put it off until Monday?”

  “Are you asking me out?”

  She nodded. There was a bubble in her throat that refused to let her speak.

  “Why?” Mac stood back and eyed her skeptically.

  “I want you to go somewhere with me,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “To a party.”

  “As what?”

  “My date.”

  “You’re kidding, right? This is one of your jokes.”

  “No joke. I’m serious.”

  “Why would you want to date me? I’m sure you have no problem getting dates.”

  Mac was not only handsome. He was delicious to look at, if she let herself think about his physical attributes. Which she wouldn’t. But he could help her out this weekend.

  “I need a date and you’re free.”

  “A date for what?”

  “A party. The one I bought the dress for.”

  He seemed to frown when she mentioned the dress. They both remembered clashing over Allison’s gown. But the dress Cinnamon was planning to wear was the one the delivery man should have brought.

  “The party is in Boston,” she blurted out.

  “You’re asking me to go away for the weekend?”

  Cinnamon looked around. They were standing on a public street. She didn’t want people staring at them. There was no one around and she was too far from Fletcher’s store to see through the glass windows.

  “Don’t make it sound like I’m asking you to go to a wedding.” Cinnamon knew asking him was a bad idea. What had made her do it? She wasn’t usually so impulsive. “You know what? Let’s forget it. It was a bad idea. I should never have asked.”

  She turned and walked away. She felt like an idiot. Why had she done something so utterly stupid?

  “I’ll go,” he said, catching up with her.

  “Don’t bother. It wasn’t a good idea.” She continued walking. “I should never have brought it up.”

  “I’ll go,” he said again. “I want to go.”

  “You do?” She stopped and looked at him.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “It’s the—”

  “Not here.” He stopped her. “My house isn’t far. Why don’t we go there? I’ll make you a latte.”

  He casually took her arm and Cinnamon felt the solidness of his hand. She didn’t want him to let go. Moments later they were sitting on opposite sides of a low table on the back porch of his house, lattes in front of them.

  The house that Allison and Paul would occupy was closer to town than Cinnamon’s house. The porch was really a covered veranda that had been updated a few years earlier, Samara had told her. It held an outdoor fireplace used to warm the cool nigh
ts and extend the summer a few more weeks.

  “Who’s giving the party?” he asked.

  “My friend, Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen Taylor. I’ve known her since college. She gives an annual Start of the Summer Ball. And it’s this weekend.”

  “Black tie, I suppose.”

  “Don’t you have a tux?” She frowned. The event was a ball. Everyone dressed.

  “I’m sure I can scare one up,” he said, taking a sip from his cup.

  “What happened to your date?”

  “How did you know I had a date?”

  The look he gave her said someone who looked like her wouldn’t be going to a ball alone. “He got transferred to England.”

  “Ah, the ole transferred to England story.” He gave her the slippery eel smile. Cinnamon couldn’t help laughing.

  “He really did get transferred.”

  “Oh, I believe you. It’s his loss, my gain.”

  Mac was confusing Cinnamon. What did he mean his gain? He didn’t like her; the two had been oil and water since they’d met. She discounted the feelings that she suppressed when he was around. She’d been in his arms, dancing with him, knew the sound of his heart beating. But he’d never given her an inkling that he had any feelings for her.

  There was the meatloaf night. They’d talked like friends and there was that one moment when she felt that Mac had wanted to kiss her. But it had been lost quickly. Now she didn’t know what to think.

  “So, give me some details other than I need a tux,” he said.

  “There isn’t much. It’s a party. It’ll be at Mary Ellen’s parents’ house in Cambridge. The place will be filled with Boston society and some plain ole folks. You’ll be fine. It’ll be nothing like a wedding.”

  She watched him recede again.

  “Is that a word we’re not going to be able to say around you? You know you can’t hide from it. It happens too often.”

  “No, it’s not a removed-from-the-dictionary word.”

  “Then you have to stop reacting to it.”

  “I’m not reacting to the word.”

  “Then what is it? Every time someone says wedding, your teeth clamp together and your jaws are so tight you could break a tooth.”

  “Good metaphor,” he said and gave her a quick smile. Cinnamon liked his smile. It did funny things to her stomach. “At this party, who am I? I mean who am I to you?”

  “My date.”

  “Nothing more?”

  She thought about that for a moment. She did want him to be more. The thought struck her like being hit with a club. But she forced herself not to change her expression.

  “Nothing more,” she said.

  “Just checking.”

  “You know, you don’t have to do this.” She wasn’t feeling so good about her invitation now. Impulsiveness was never a good idea. “In fact, I think I’ll just rescind the invitation.”

  “Not on your life. If you don’t take me with you, I’ll go to Boston and find Mary Ellen Taylor and tell her how you stole the bride’s gown and then crashed her wedding.”

  There, he’d said it. She knew he did it to let her know the word didn’t frighten him.

  “She’ll laugh. The same as I would.”

  “Well, you still don’t have a date. And I’m available.” He turned slightly away from her and looked at the sky, patting his foot as if waiting for her to cave.

  Cinnamon laughed. “All right. We leave Friday at noon. The party is Saturday night. We come back Sunday. Can you manage that?”

  He got up and walked to the fireplace. “Where are we staying?”

  “My house.”

  “You have a house in Boston?”

  “Actually, it’s my mother’s house. She’s away on one of those Alaskan cruises with my aunt. Then the two of them are going to spend a couple of weeks in Seattle visiting their other sister before returning.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant her mother and her sisters or the two of them having the house alone.

  “Don’t get any ideas. You get a room and a bed. Nothing more.”

  “Not even breakfast?”

  “There’s an IHOP close by. I’ll even spring for it.”

  “No,” he disagreed. “Breakfast will be on me.”

  “I have to go and get some things done,” she began. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “Not so fast.” He stopped her. “I have a condition. I do you a favor, you do one for me.”

  Cinnamon sat back down. “What is it?”

  Mac took a breath and waited a moment. She wondered what condition he could impose.

  “It’s about a wedding.”

  “What about a wedding?”

  “I need a date, too.”

  “You want me to go a wedding with you?”

  He was back to looking as if he’d rather have his fingernails removed.

  “If I could have gotten out of it, I would have.”

  “You don’t look like you’d have a problem getting a date to a wedding.” She deliberately said the W word, throwing him the same argument he’d given her.

  “I need someone who won’t expect any entanglements after it’s over.”

  “And that would be me?” She lowered her chin and looked at him with hard eyes.

  “That would be you.” He hesitated a moment. “I know that came out wrong, but I need a date for a wedding and since you don’t really like me, you’d be perfect.”

  “I get it,” Cinnamon said. It dawned on her that he needed to use her for something. “Which is it, you’re trying to circumvent a previous relationship or someone is trying to set you up and you want to thwart their plans?”

  “The first.”

  He’d answered immediately. At least he was honest. Cinnamon liked that about him. Her face softened a little.

  “She’s my ex-fiancée. She’ll be at the wedding.”

  “Exactly what role am I supposed to play?”

  He looked confused a second before a light seemed to dawn in his brain. “Oh, you won’t need to play the loving girlfriend.”

  “But I’m more than, say, a buddy?” She spread her hands. “More than, maybe, a sister figure?” She stared steadily at him. “Maybe it’s a first date kind of thing.” She got up and crossed the space to where he stood. “I smile a lot, make polite conversation with your friends.” She moved around him, lowering her voice. “But I don’t hang on your arm like this.” She took his arm, slipped hers through it and pressed her shoulder against his. “I don’t curve myself around you.” She demonstrated her words. “And continually offer my mouth for a kiss.”

  She was close enough for their mouths to touch. He stared down at her lips, saying nothing. Cinnamon felt the warmth of his mouth, tasted the latte he’d drunk across the small space separating them. She’d discovered she hadn’t thought this ploy through. She wanted him to kiss her. In a moment, she’d remove that tiny distance and do what she wanted to do. He’d kissed her before and she wanted him to do it again.

  “Be careful, Cinnamon, you’re no longer on solid ground.”

  For a moment Cinnamon hung where she was. She liked the solid feel of him more than she should. Suddenly, she moved back. Then walked across to the railing and looked out over the yard that had so recently held huge round tables and been crowded with guests.

  “Yeah,” she finally said. “Going to a wedding with someone you don’t really like appears to be the perfect solution.” She turned around, keeping the distance between them. Her body felt wet, like she needed a shower—a cold shower. “Who’s getting married?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal.

  “My best friend. I’m the best man so I have to be there. But it’s not for another month.”

  “I like weddings. I want to have a huge one, white dress with all the trimmings.”

  “Just like Allison’s.”

  She nodded. “I’ve dreamed of it all my life.”

  “Are you doing anything to make
it happen?” He looked at her inquiringly. “Just because you don’t have a date for this party doesn’t mean you don’t have a line of suitors.”

  “If you’re asking if there’s a man in my life, not at the moment.”

  “Good, I’d hate to run into someone who misunderstands our date.”

  Mac was old enough to recognize that there were cycles in the lives of every circle of friends. There was the cycle when they all graduated high school and went off to college. Then the cycle when they began their first jobs. Now there was the marriage cycle. He looked down at the third invitation he’d received this year for the wedding of one of his friends. Not to mention his own sister’s wedding just a week ago. In a year or two there would be the baby cycle.

  Mac placed the dishes in the dishwasher after Cinnamon left. He frowned at the thought of going away with her. He had to be out of his mind. What had possessed him to say he’d go with her? And say it more than once.

  His briefcase sat open on the kitchen table. He lifted the envelope on top of the papers and pulled the single card out. Mr. and Mrs. Adam Tate request the honor of your presence at the nuptials of their daughter Sandra Marie to Mr. Richard Briscoe. Mac read the gold lettering on the cream-colored card stock. He’d known Rick since they were kids. Rick had escaped Indian Falls and gone to D.C., where he was now to be married. Mac couldn’t stop the frown. Every wedding reminded him of his own. At least the one he’d almost had. And along with that came the humiliating way it had ended.

  Mac sat down, still holding the invitation. Jerrilyn was in San Francisco. She’d moved there right after the havoc she’d created in D.C., leaving him to clean up her mess. Rick knew them both. So did his fiancée, Sandra, who was friends with Jerrilyn. It was impossible to think that Jerrilyn wasn’t reading a similar invitation to the same wedding. He had to go. Rick had been his friend since life began and Mac was the best man. But he didn’t look forward to seeing the woman he’d been engaged to marry again, especially in a setting that called for white gowns, tuxedos and ’til death do us part. He’d been to three weddings this year alone and she had been at every one of them. While she’d come with a date, he’d gone stag. Not this time.