by Loree Lough
On the very afternoon of her mother’s death, Dara had tucked a brides’ magazine in with the others. If she could have predicted—as they made their way through the stack—that looking at white gowns and headdresses would make Anne cry, she’d have slipped it from the stack and hidden it for sure.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Anne had said, sniffing and blotting her eyes on a corner of the starched white sheet. “I love being married to your father. Always have. But if I had it to do over again, I would have listened to your grandmother. I would have exercised a little patience and waited for that nice church wedding I’d always dreamed about.” Her voice, wispy and weak, faded as she struggled for each breath.
Dara had tried to convince her mother to conserve her energy, but telling the story seemed to calm her more than silence could have.
“Your dad was a lieutenant in those days.” Anne had smiled serenely. “A navy test pilot,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Oh, how handsome he was in his flight suit.” She sighed. “The minute we learned he’d be shipping out for six months of sea duty, we decided to tie the knot, so I could start setting up house while he was gone. We ended up exchanging vows in the pastor’s office—me in my Sunday best, your dad in his dress uniform.”
They’d gone through it so many times it could have been a one-act play. “But, Mom,” Dara said, as if rehearsed, “if you had waited, you would have had six months less with Dad.”
Nodding weakly, her mother closed her eyes. “That’s true,” she’d whispered. “And every moment counts, especially now, doesn’t it?”
Her mother had gripped her hand then, forcing Dara to meet her eyes. “Oh, sweet girl, how I wish I could be at your wedding.”
“I’m just a few years shy of thirty, Mom,” she’d teased halfheartedly, “there isn’t much chance—”
“It’ll happen.” Anne’s voice, strong and sure, belied her condition. “You’ll see. Before you know it, when you least expect it, the man of your dreams will come into your life and—” She’d giggled softly, squeezing Dara’s hand. “Wear something pretty and feminine to your wedding. Do it for me, okay?”
Dara pushed the tissue paper aside, exposing the suit. Pretty and feminine enough for you, Mom? She leaped from the bed, pressed the jacket to her torso and did a slow pirouette in front of her mirror. This wasn’t at all what you had in mind, was it? She could be certain, because Anne had opened the brides’ magazine and dog-eared a center page. “This is the kind of dress I want you to wear on your oh-so-special day,” she’d gushed.
Dara laid the jacket gently atop its matching skirt and stepped into her closet. There, in a discarded boot box on the lower shelf, lay that very magazine. She opened it to the page her mother had marked, flopped onto the bed beside her suit and smiled thinly.
The gown was made of creamy-white satin, and its sweetheart neckline and pirate sleeves were trimmed in tiny pearls. The train began at the tightly petaled rosette at the small of the waist and cascaded to the floor like a silken waterfall that came to rest in a puddle and stretched out for fifteen feet. The veil, made of dozens of yards of finely woven lace, gave a cloudlike illusion as it floated to the floor from the pearl-encrusted tiara.
Closing the periodical, Dara lay on her stomach, fingers skimming across the chalk-white wool. Tastefully elegant, the suit fitted as if it had been sewn exclusively for her. Its scalloped neckline and sleeves had been trimmed with tiny, opalescent buttons. She’d bought a narrow-brimmed milk-white hat to go with it, and after opening the round hatbox, Dara poked her finger into its stiff, open-weave veil that would hide her face until that magic moment.
“It isn’t what you wanted for me, Mom,” she whispered, folding the tissue over the suit, “but it’ll do…for the kind of ceremony we’ve planned.”
Planned? Ha! she thought, rolling onto her back. One hand lay under her pillow; the other rested atop the tissue-covered wedding suit. The only thing planned about this wedding is that there will be a wedding at all!
She had hoped, once she’d agreed to become his wife, that Noah would make time somewhere in his schedule to talk about their future. Should she arrange a small reception at his house, so he could entertain employees and clients? Who would witness the exchange of vows in Pastor Williams’s cramped little office? Would there be a honeymoon?
He hadn’t discussed any of the details of life after the ceremony, either, except to say that since the children had grown so accustomed to their spacious house on Kingsway Drive, it would be best if Dara moved in with them, instead of the other way around.
It meant having to sell almost everything.
There was a bright side to that dark cloud: use the proceeds from the sale of her parents’ house and the condo to pay back the money Dad stole. She had no intention of letting Noah right her father’s wrong. What kind of life would they have if they started out he the great and generous “giver of things” and she the needy “taker.”
It wouldn’t be easy selling the two-bedroom condo she’d bought with a down payment from her first-year teaching, but it’d be a whole lot less painful than seeing the For Sale sign go up in front of the rambling manor house where she’d grown up.
Soon after her father died, Dara had packed up her parents’ personal belongings and put them in storage. Things that didn’t fit into her own condo had been given to friends or sold at ridiculously low prices to couples just starting out.
Her dad had been gone six months now, and she hadn’t been in the house, not once, since opening it to let a young engaged couple take a look at the living room suite. The Victorian antiques Dara’s mother had collected over the years were worth easily ten times what the lovebirds paid for them. Remembering how her father felt about the mustard-colored velvet divan and two ornate, blue-green brocade side chairs made it easy to let them go so cheaply. “This place is starting to look like the back of a tinker’s wagon!” he’d complain. But her mother’s love for antiques outweighed his need for a simpler life, as evidenced by her continual additions to the outrageous collection.
Dara had been left with mixed feelings as she’d sold off the pieces that had so distressed her father—and so pleased her mother. She had easily found people whose appreciation for the gaudy stuff matched her mother’s own. She’d let it all go—lead-crystal lamps with silk shades, baroque candlesticks, sateen throw pillows, the elaborately carved cherry tables—for a song. “In your honor, Dad,” she’d whispered, watching the happy couple drive off pulling their overflowing rented trailer.
She’d decorated her own bright, airy rooms with an eclectic mix of plainness and color. Bright area rugs lay on well-scrubbed hardwood floors. Cream camelbacked sofas and chairs flanked the fireplace. Terracotta lamps with parchment shades sat on maple Shaker tables. Indoor trees and houseplants in brass kettles and wicker urns formed a natural curtain between her world and the bustling street outside. And it was all a one-of-a-kind backdrop for her lifelong collection of wolf figurines.
Except for the wolves, she would have to leave it all behind. But what did it matter? She had her memories, didn’t she?
“Oh, Daddy,” Dara whispered as tears filled her eyes, “if only I had known.…”
Known what? That his trip to England would kill him? That he’d be accused of a despicable crime afterward?
If he hadn’t stolen that money, Noah would never have proposed in the first place.
She’d been telling herself the only reason she’d agreed was that Noah needed her to keep another accident like the one that had nearly blinded Bobby from happening. But Dara knew in her heart that wasn’t true; he’d been doing a fine job taking care of his kids without her.
But if not for the missing two hundred thousand, if not to take care of the kids, then why had she agreed to marry him?
Dara gingerly fingered the pearly buttons on her wedding suit. Admit it, she thought, you want to marry him…because you love him.
Noah stood in Angie’s doorway, hands pocketed, a
nd watched her sleep. The hallway light slanted into her room, illuminating her pixie-ish face. She’d pulled the covers up tight under her chin, tiny fingertips sticking out as she clutched at the satiny trim of her fuzzy pink blanket. She tried so hard, during her waking hours, to behave like a grown-up, but asleep, Angie was every bit a child…innocent, sweet, very much in need of a mother’s protection and care.
Soon, he told her silently, soon you’ll have it. Quietly, he pulled her door, leaving it open just enough so that he’d hear her if she called out in her sleep.
He walked down the carpeted hall and stepped softly into Bobby’s room. As usual, the boy had kicked off his covers and lay on his side, hugging his knees to his chest. Noah eased the covers up carefully, so as not to wake him. The boy was safe and sound and sleeping peacefully. There was no reason to linger.
But he couldn’t seem to make himself leave. He’d come so close, paralyzingly close, to losing him.
Noah reached out, brushed Bobby’s blond hair back from his forehead. The young boy stirred and, without opening his eyes, murmured “Daddy?” in a small, soft voice.
On his knees beside the bed, Noah held the boy to his chest. “I’m here, son,” he whispered, lips pressed to the boy’s temple. “I’m here.”
He waited a moment to hear what Bobby wanted. A drink of water? A trip to the bathroom? A second bedtime story, perhaps?
But he slept on, deep and sound, and Noah realized he hadn’t awakened at all. Rather, he’d called, in his dream state, from an honest place where the man who’d been entrusted with the care of his little body and his big heart was, simply, “Daddy.”
He laid Bobby back on the pillow, tucked the covers under his chin, kissed his cheek. “Sweet dreams, son.” He sighed. “I love you.”
“Love you,” Bobby mumbled into his pillow.
If you hug him again, you’ll wake him for sure, Noah thought. And so, regretfully, he got to his feet, and walked from the room.
In the family room, Noah settled into his chair, laid the Bible on his lap, let it fall open at will. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine,” he read from the Song of Solomon. “Thou art beautiful.”
Like Dara.…
He closed the Holy Book. This time when he opened it, it fell to Exodus: “If he came in by himself, he shall go out by himself; if he were married, then his wife shall go out with him.”
She’ll stand beside you, really stand beside you, forever…
“Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it.”
I’ll be good to her, he promised himself.
“It is not good for man to be alone.…”
And it isn’t. He knew, because he’d been alone as a child, alone in his marriage, alone after Francine died. He’d had enough of it to last several lifetimes. But with Dara, it would be different. He hadn’t felt alone since meeting her; with Dara, he’d never be alone again.
He closed the Good Book, thumb tracing the gold cross emblazoning the brown leather cover. Two more days, he thought, a slow smile spreading over his face. Just two more days.
He wondered what she’d wear. Sensible shoes? A perky little hat? A kicky, knee-length dress? Surely not a billowing white gown and a long flowing veil like Francine had worn. No, not for a wedding in Williams’s musty office. It seemed terribly unfair, because Dara was a beautiful woman, inside and out, and she deserved to be married in satin and lace, surrounded by fresh-cut flowers, in a church filled with friends.
He remembered that night in his family room, when she’d said in her straightforward way: “My father gets his good name back, you’ll get a chief cook and bottle washer and your kids get a substitute mother. What’s in it for me?”
Noah hadn’t known what to say then. But he knew what had been in his mind. He loved her, more than he had ever thought it possible for a man to love a woman, and he’d spend the rest of his days finding ways to prove it.
His smile grew as an idea began forming in his mind. If all went well, he’d start proving it on their wedding day. And it would be just the kind of wedding gift she deserved.
In bold black felt-tip marker, the sign printed on a cardboard shirt-backer said Please Use Church Entrance.
Tightening her hold on the umbrella’s hook-shaped handle, Dara stood at the door to Pastor Williams’s office and huffed her exasperation. Now she’d have to traipse along the narrow path that hugged the complex…in the driving snow.
Now, really, she asked herself, why are you surprised? Nothing about your life has been right. Not since Mom died.
Things had only gone downhill from there…her father’s first heart attack, his death, Dara’s discovery of his crime. She’d lost her job, too, and now she was on her way to marry a man who didn’t—and likely never would—love her, since he so obviously still loved the wife he’d lost years earlier. A terrifying, almost smothering, thought haunted her, one she’d tried her best to keep at bay: How do I compete with a woman he considers to be perfect?
The thunderstorm that blew through during the night had knocked out the electricity in her neighborhood. Dara guessed she must have fallen asleep sometime around 4:00 a.m. When she awoke again, the red numerals of the alarm clock said 6:42. A quick check of her watch had told her it was 8:58. She had exactly forty-seven minutes to shower, put on her makeup, fix her hair, get into her suit and make the fifteen-minute drive to the church. Because the ceremony—if a quickie exchange of “I do’s” could be called a ceremony—would begin at ten. If she didn’t want to be late for her own wedding, there wasn’t a moment to lose. She’d skipped breakfast and rushed around, before leaving the house with a full ten minutes to spare.
But there had been a fender bender at the corner, blocking traffic, and she’d been forced to take the long way around. Despite hitting every red light, and the fact that folks were driving more slowly than usual because of the snow, Dara still managed to make it to the church five minutes ahead of schedule.
But now this little sidetrack.
The weight of it all descended without warning, and fighting tears, Dara ducked into a recessed doorway. I was a well-behaved child, wasn’t I? she asked God. Didn’t I follow the letter of Your law? Wasn’t I an obedient believer? Was this to be her reward, then, for having lived a life of doing the right thing—being forced to forgo a real church wedding she and her mom had dreamed of…without family and friends, without flowers, without music?
She recited a verse from Philippians: “‘Do all things without murmurings and disputings.’” Taking a deep breath, she recalled an even more appropriate line from Psalms: “O my God, my soul is cast down within me; therefore I will remember Thee.…”
And in the remembering, her father’s favorite Bible passage came to mind: “God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.”
Noah may never love her, but his children would. And that’ll be enough, she thought, blotting her eyes with a crumpled tissue taken from her coat pocket. I’ll be the best wife and mother I know how to be, and by the grace of God, it’ll be enough!
The heels of her winter-white shoes clicked over the brick path leading from the pastor’s office to the wide double doors of the church. In the vestibule, once she’d closed the umbrella and hung up her coat, Dara looked at her wristwatch. Two minutes to ten.
She glanced toward the front of the church and saw him standing on the altar, feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back. He’d worn a coal-black suit, a starched white shirt, a silvery blue tie that, even from this distance, she knew matched his eyes exactly. Bobby stood to his right, Angie to his left. Well, she told herself, there they are…your new family.
Her family!
Heart swelling and throbbing with joy and overwhelming love for them—for all of them—she was powerless to control her emotions. She bowed her head, praying that the veil of her hat
would hide her tears.
She met Noah’s eyes, and he gave a slight nod, as if granting permission for her to join them as Angie, wearing a frilly, shin-length dress of deep red velvet, half ran, half skipped down the center aisle. Only then did Dara notice the white runner skimming the carpeted floor.
“Pastor Williams says when I get back up to the altar rail,” Angie whispered, “I’m supposed to give you something.”
Feelings of self-pity were quickly forgotten as Dara looked into the girl’s wide, expectant eyes. “A surprise?”
Nodding, Angie said from behind all eight fingertips, “I’ll give you a hint. It’s red and white.”
When Dara looked up, she saw the pastor’s usual tightly controlled smile. He wasn’t wearing a suit, as she’d expected. Instead, he’d donned the satiny white robe that he reserved for baptisms and confirmations…and weddings. He stepped aside and flipped a switch, then waved her forward.
“C’mon,” Angie said, taking Dara’s hand. “It’s time.”
Chapter Nine
“Time?” Dara asked, voice trembling nearly as badly as her hands. “Time for what?”
“Time to get married, silly!”
Married.
Dara’s heart thundered in reaction to the finality of it. If you walk up that aisle, she thought, staring at the white runner, there’s no turning back. If you say “I do” to Noah up there in a few minutes, four lives are going to change forever.
The thought reminded her of that afternoon last week, when Noah had insisted she be present when he sat the children down, and explained.
“Next Saturday,” he’d said, hands folded on the kitchen table, “Miss Dara and I will be getting married. What do you say to that?”
The kids had exchanged puzzled glances, then stared silently at their somber-faced father. Bobby spoke first. “Does that mean she’ll be your new wife?”
Noah had nodded.
He gave it a moment’s thought, then shrugged one shoulder. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked at Angie. “Isn’t it?”