Runaway Bridesmaid (18 page)

“I bought 'em on impulse about a year ago. But they're too understated.”

True, compared with the two-inch-wide bright red enameled flowers with the rhinestone centers currently positioned on either side of her sister's face. In any case, the pearl earrings worked quite nicely with both Sarah's square jaw and the outfit, which she had to admit was better than the black.

Even if, as she'd said, the black was better suited to her lugubrious mood.

“Jennifer!” Vivian called up the stairs. “Lance is here, honey.”

“Be right there,” Jennifer yelled back, then gave Sarah a hug. “You look wonderful,” she said with a giggle. “Knock 'em dead.” Then, clearly pleased with her fairy godmother work, Jennifer floated out of the room.

Knock 'em dead? Oh, sure. The way Sarah's stomach felt at the moment, the only one likely to be dead by the end of the evening was she.

Oh, how she dreaded this dinner, having to sit next to Dean, because she didn't know what to do. She was hopeless at man-
woman games, having never had either the need or the inclination to play them. She needed—wanted—to tell him about Katey, but now was more afraid than ever what his reaction might be. Of course he'd be shocked. Probably angry.
Probably?

What if he really
couldn't
forgive her? One hand pressed into her jittery stomach: it just about killed her to think that…that—she shut her eyes, admitted to herself the one thing she'd refused to admit for the past week—that they might be
this
close to getting back together….

Talk about the past catching up with you.

Funny, how they'd both acted from what they thought were noble motives, like some turn-of-the-century O'Henry story. He didn't want to trap her; she then didn't want to trap
him.
And here, all along, they would have both been perfectly happy being “trapped.” Things wouldn't have been easy, God knows, but they would have worked it out, somehow. Just like they'd planned to all along.

But they hadn't. And now there was one holy mess to clean up. And, at the moment, a wedding rehearsal and dinner to get through.

“Sarah Louise? Come on, honey, or we'll be late.”

She sighed so loudly, Balthasar actually looked concerned.

 

Only Sarah could look that good in that dress.

Criminy—it looked like something his aunt would wear. To church. On Sarah, however,
church
was the last thing that came to mind. She looked like a rose. An incredibly
sexy
rose.

A rose he was having an increasingly difficult time ignoring.

He meant what he'd said to Jennifer, that Sarah would have to be the one to make the next move. And if she really didn't want to work things out…well, that was that, wasn't it?

But if she did, she'd have to tell him. Plainly, unequivocally, so there was no doubt. Which meant he'd just have to stay out of her way a little while longer. A plan that would have been fine, in theory, had dear, darling Jennifer not insisted they sit next to each other at dinner. So here he sat next to this fragrant
rose of a woman who made his blood simmer, the tension between them probably causing interference on televisions within a five-mile radius.

Jennifer threw him an occasional nasty look, shifting her eyes in her sister's direction as if to say “What are you waiting for?” And Vivian, too, was doling out her fair share of unspoken censure, although at least
her
annoyance seemed to be equally divided between them.

He couldn't see Sarah's face, of course, but he could tell by her silence—as well as her uncharacteristic lack of appetite—that she was probably fighting for control. She went through the motions for probably a half an hour, then suddenly tucked her napkin underneath her plate and left the table. And, just as suddenly, he didn't give a damn about fish or bait or sisters-in-law or any of it.

He found her outside, on a deck overlooking the lake. He didn't ask, he didn't question, he didn't hesitate. He just swept her into his arms and held on tight, as if they would both die if he let go.

 

Sarah knew he would follow her. She would have been even more upset if he hadn't. And didn't
that
make a whole lot of sense?

At that moment, she could have no more resisted being drawn into his embrace than she could have gone up two bra sizes. She burst into tears, clinging to the lapels of his sport jacket as hard as he was clinging to her.

“What are we doing here?” he asked softly, stroking her hair.

“D-don't know about you,” she hiccuped, “but I'm h-having a damn g-good cry.”

He laughed and hugged her more closely for a second, then held her slightly away so he could look into her face. Terrific. Even the dusky light wasn't going to camouflage puffy eyelids and a swollen top lip. Yet he smiled for her as if she were the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

He wiped away her tears with his fingertips, those deep
green eyes as soothing as a sauna. And just as hot. “Your call,” he whispered, his breath caressing her face. “What do we do now?”

She sniffled, needing to joke. Needing to diffuse the heat that was threatening a serious brain meltdown. “Find me a tissue, that's what.”

“That's my girl,” Dean said with a lopsided smile—
damn
that lopsided smile!—pulling out a clean handkerchief from his back pocket. “Miss Pragmatic.”

Sarah took the soft cloth, trying not to let their fingers touch. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, wiped her eyes again. Dean led them over to a bench apart from the restaurant where they were relatively alone and settled both of them on it, his arm protectively draped around her shoulders.

It was her move. Her turn. And possibly the only chance she'd have.

“I…understand now why you left me,” she said in a small voice.

His fingers tightened around her shoulder. Just slightly. “You do.”

She nodded and continued in a rush, “Now, I don't think that was the smartest decision you've ever made, and I don't know, yet, if I can ever fully forgive you. But I know your motives were unselfish.” She offered a tremulous smile. “Misguided, maybe, but unselfish.”

She saw hope stir in those kind, sweet eyes, and she wanted to cry out. “Is this…something you can live with?” he asked, his voice soft as a baby's kiss.

Her fingers worried her old high school ring for several seconds before she nodded again, sharply. More words, more risk.

The bench creaked slightly as he shifted his weight away from her.

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. His thick lashes were lowered over eyes that weren't seeing anything, she knew, as a vein pulsed in his temple, a puzzled half smile only fractionally relaxing his stiff jaw.

“Okay…” He drew out the word, his brain obviously trying
to churn through this as much as hers was. His fingers left her shoulder, worked their way up her neck. Much more dangerous territory, she decided, feeling her heart thunder in her chest. “Does this mean…we could maybe give this another shot?”

Why couldn't this be a simple answer?

“
That
I don't know about.”

That
was clearly not the answer he expected. Wanted.

He tucked two fingers under her chin and tilted her face to his. “Then tell me why not.”

But she couldn't. She had to, but not now, she realized. Not when her sister—who didn't know about Katey, either—was getting married tomorrow. She lowered her eyes, then looked back into his, knowing hers were blazing with fear. And need. And confusion.

Just like his.

He stroked her cheek, which brought a whimper, then touched his forehead to hers. His scent—so familiar, so arousing—swirled through her senses. “Sarah, honey—you can tell me anything. You know that. Just like you always could.”

If only it were that simple.

As long as she stayed mum, she could pretend there was hope. The minute she revealed the truth, however, it would be over. He'd said so himself, that he would never be able to forgive someone who'd lied the way he had to her. And
her
deception was so, so much worse. Would he even understand that her motives, like his, had been well-intentioned, that she simply hadn't wanted to shackle him to something he wasn't ready for?

Shaking her head, she pulled away from him, the tears coming again.

“Sarah—” Frustration viced his words. “What the
hell
are you so afraid of?”

Of losing you…again.

She just shook her head. Again. Then jumped off the bench and ran away.

Again.

 

Dean stared after her for several seconds, then went back inside, knowing he wouldn't find Sarah, not at all sure what he'd do or say if he did. He felt like a not-too-bright dog who knows he's buried a bone somewhere in the backyard but can't remember where, so he has to dig up the whole dang place until he finds it.

Of course, the process is just a bit more difficult if the dog's trying to dig up some
other
dog's bone.

He noticed most of the wedding party had dispersed, some dancing, having drifted outside to the deck. Vivian, however, was still at the table, sipping her wine, lost in thought.

Ah. Vivian.

He walked up and tapped her on the shoulder, making her jerk her hand to her chest. “Got a minute?” he said with a smile he'd dredged up from somewhere. “We need to talk.”

 

“Now.”

The breeze off the lake toyed with the hem of Vivian's shapeless dark blue dress as she sat on the bench where he and Sarah had just been. Dean stood in front of her, his arms crossed, his temper just barely in check. “I want to know right now what is going on here. Something has Sarah scared out of her wits. Since she won't tell me about it, I figured you probably could.”

Vivian darted a glance in his direction, then folded her arms as well. “You figured wrong.”

He narrowed his eyes, the muscles at the sides of his head threatening rebellion. “What? That you can't tell me? Or you won't?”

Cornered. That's how she looked. Her mouth was still locked into a stubborn set that would have taken a jackhammer to prise apart, but her eyes told another story entirely. One he'd very much like to hear.

“It's not up to me—” she started.

“I knew it! So there
is
a problem.”

Vivian propelled herself up from the bench and walked a few feet away, her low-heeled black patent pumps hammering against the wooden surface of the deck. The hammering stopped, and she just stood still, staring out at the lake. When she finally faced him again, her expression told him nothing. A puff of air lifted a hank of her graying hair and draped it across her broad face; she gave it a cursory swipe back into its chignon. “You love her?”

And there it was, unwrapped and polished and laid out, gleaming and
real,
in front of him. Not guilt, or regret, or even concern, but the one thing, the only thing, he suddenly realized he'd ever felt for Sarah Louise Whitehouse from the time he was old enough to even have an inkling of what the word meant.

“God, Viv—you know I do.”

“Then hang on to that,” she said with a curt nod, pushing back the hair again. “Hang on to that like you were a drowning man and that was the only inner tube in the whole ever-lovin' ocean.”

With that, she headed back to the restaurant.

“That's it?”

She turned back to him, her head cocked, contemplating. Then she shrugged. “You'll just have to wait until Sarah's ready to talk,” she said, not unkindly. “Neither you nor I nor anyone else can speed that up.” A resigned smile curved her lips slightly upward, turning her cheeks into balloons. “And then…” Her laugh sounded more like a sigh. “I just hope
you're
ready.”

Another shrug, then she disappeared inside. Dean stood in the middle of the deck, his face muscles pulled so taut he felt as if his skin didn't fit.

Wait for what? Be ready for what? What could Sarah possibly have to tell him that could possibly alter the way he felt about her?

And when,
when,
would he find out what that was?

J
ennifer could not have asked for a prettier wedding day, Sarah thought, her bedroom curtain tucked in the crook of her fingers. It had rained after midnight, leaving the air cool and dry, the postcard-blue sky dotted here and there with poufs of clouds that looked like cute little lamby-pies.

The bride had already been in and out of Sarah's room ten times that morning, although Sarah couldn't have pinpointed an actual reason for any of the visits. Jennifer had zipped past
exuberant
to
wired
at least two hours ago. Under other circumstances, Sarah would have been buzzing right along with her. As it was, she was doing well to manage
civil.

Another sleepless night. Lord, she was getting tired of those, tired of flopping around on her bed and untangling herself from the sheets every ten minutes, tired of smearing cover-up goo under her eyes to hide the circles, tired of being tired. If she'd at least reach some sort of conclusion at the end of these nocturnal marathons, the loss of sleep would be worth something. But she never did. Instead, exhaustion just made her even more confused.

So. The question
du jour
was, once again, what was she going to do about Dean? Why did the time never seem right to tell him about Katey?

Nine years ago, there had been choices. She may not have liked any of them, but they'd existed. Now there were none. At least, not in the “what” categories. Only in the “whens” and “hows.”

Neither of which could she even begin to figure out.

Her anxiety was sending her to the john more often than her newly pregnant sister. Unfortunately, in this circus tent of a dress, that mundane activity had taken on the logistical proportions of moving a small army.

Sarah looked at herself in the mirror, feeling like the Cotton Candy That Ate Alabama. Her short hair looked preposterous over the voluminous sleeves and skirt, like an eighteenth-century lady missing her periwig. She had tried everything—curling it, moussing it, spraying it. Two inches just didn't give you a whole lot to work with.

Oh, yeah. The perfect finishing touch to her already rotten mood.

No,
she thought as she picked up the matching lace-frosted beach umbrella her delirious sister thought was a “hat.”
This
was the perfect finishing touch.

She yanked the thing down to her eyebrows, which made her have to lift her head to see where she was going, then swung open her door and stomped out of the room. Ten feet and fewer seconds was not going to change her attitude very much, she knew. But she was her sister's maid of honor, after all. Grumpiness was not an option.

Jennifer was leaning over her vanity, applying probably the third coat of mascara to her already thick lashes, her mouth hanging open in that way it did on women when they put on eye makeup, as if somehow the muscles in the side of the face made the eyelashes stand out more, or something. Sarah never had figured that one out.

In Jen's reflection, Sarah could see scathingly sexy ivory lace underwear peeking out from underneath a ratty old house
coat, Jennifer's “real” lingerie already either packed for her honeymoon or ensconced in the new apartment.

“Oh, no, silly,” Jennifer addressed her mirror as Sarah swooshed through her door. Entangled in the bride's hair, a dozen mammoth curlers wobbled like birds on a telephone wire. Snapping the mascara closed, Jen swung herself off her vanity seat and crossed her room to fuss with the hat and Sarah's hair.

Organza rustled as Sarah pretzled her arms across her ribs. “Well, at least I look a damn sight better than you do.”

“Shut up and be still,” Jennifer said, standing on tiptoe to reach Sarah's head. After a minute or so of tweaking and twitching, Jennifer said “There!” and parked her hands on her hips in triumph. She pointed to her closet mirror. “Go. Look. Admire the work of a master.”

“Wouldn't that be
mistress?
”

Jen smirked. Sarah looked, her eyebrows lifting as the corners of her mouth turned down in reluctant admission that Jennifer was good at this. Soft, wispy waves now framed her face, the hat sat at an angle that made her eyes look huge and mysterious. She pivoted her head from side to side, occasionally poking at a strand of hair. “I don't know how you did it,” she admitted, “but at least I don't feel like Margaret what's-her-name in
The Wizard of Oz
anymore.”

“Hamilton,” Jennifer supplied, removing the rollers. At Sarah's puzzled expression, Jennifer repeated, “Margaret Hamilton played the wicked witch in the movie.”

“Oh. Yeah. Whoever.” Despite feeling as though someone had tied a brick to her heart and was going to throw it in the pond to drown it, she managed a smile. “Who's going to make sure I'm all pretty once you're married and gone?”

“I thought about that,” Jennifer replied dryly. “I dread to think what'll happen if you're left on your own.” She let the duster slip off her shoulders, then combed out her hair into a cascade of soft waves that caressed her bare shoulders. “Okay…” She rose from the vanity bench and faced her bed, on which lay her wedding gown. “The moment of truth.”

Sarah lifted the airy dress off the bed and slipped it over her sister's arms and head, both of them giggling as Jennifer lost her way for a moment and couldn't find one of the sleeves. Finally, all limbs and corresponding openings sorted out and the dress buttoned in back, Sarah pressed her hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Jen…”

Jennifer undulated a little in the gown, letting it settle, then faced her mirror. And grinned.

“Hey…not too shabby, huh?”

If Sarah had felt like the Wicked Witch of the West, her sister was definitely Glinda. The gown was fairly simple, actually, an embroidered organza with a full, fluffy skirt, fitted bodice, and airy puffed sleeves worn off the shoulders. But on Jennifer it was magic. A wand would have been more appropriate than a bouquet.

Vivian opened the door, Jennifer's veil wrapped over her arm, and broke into a broad smile. “Well, if it isn't my little fairy princess,” she said, swallowing back tears. The girls looked at each other, and Sarah knew that everyone in the room was thinking the same thing—that it was a shame Eliott Whitehouse wasn't there to walk his daughter down the aisle. As much as Percy Jenkins was thrilled to do the honors, it wasn't the same.

But it was not a day for regrets.

“Gifts before veil,” Jennifer said, rustling to her dresser. “Where's Katey?”

“Probably in the bathroom,” Vivian said, smoothing the front of her mauve-and-silver shot silk dress. “I'll get her.”

While their mother was gone, Jennifer gave Sarah a tiny box wrapped in silver paper. Sarah opened it and gasped. “Jen! How could you afford these?”

“They're not exactly companions to the Hope diamond,” she heard her sister say as Sarah removed the tiny gold balls she usually wore in her ears and inserted the glittering diamond studs. “Besides, don't expect anything for your birthday. Or Christmas, either. For the next ten years.”

Vivian ushered Katey into the room, a doll in a tiny lavender replica of the other bridesmaids' dresses, wearing a cleverly arranged circlet of flowers that covered her small bandage almost completely. For Vivian, there was a set of pearl earrings, which she, too, promptly donned; for Katey, a tiny heart-shaped locket with pictures of Jennifer and Lance inside.

The two ladies were helping Jennifer with her veil, a froth of floor-length silk illusion set on a headpiece of real orange blossoms, when the doorbell rang.

Vivian crossed to the window. “Limo's here.” She turned to the bride. “Ready, baby?”

Jennifer grabbed Sarah's hand. “In a second.”

Vivian's eyes drifted to her daughter's entwined hands and nodded. “We'll see you downstairs.”

After Vivian and Katey left, Jennifer gave Sarah a cautious hug, each one fluffing out the other's sleeves when they broke apart.

“Nervous?” Sarah asked.

Jennifer's curls grazed her shoulders as she shook her head. She smelled like spring and love and all things wonderful. “Not one little bit.” Her nose crinkled when she grinned. “Just very, very happy.”

“You should be. Lance is a great guy.”

“So's Dean,” Jen shot back without a second's hesitation. She wagged her finger at Sarah. “Don't you dare let that man get away, you hear me?”

Sarah simply smiled and put her arm around her sister's waist. “Come on, lady. There's a big fancy car waiting for you in the driveway. Think it's time to get you to your wedding, don't you?”

Jennifer let her eyes wander around her room for all of two seconds, then sucked in her breath. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, squeezing Sarah's hand. “I'm getting
married.
”

“Not if you don't get to the church, you're not,” Sarah replied with a laugh, pushing her out her bedroom door and shutting it behind them.

 

Sarah had never seen so many flowers in her life. True to Jennifer's extravagant nature, the simple white-walled church had been transformed into a heavy-scented floral paradise. Every window, every dark wood pew, every space that could hold an arrangement was engulfed by luscious arches and swags and bouquets in various combinations of deep green boxwood and pittosporum, pink roses and frilly white carnations, violet statice and larkspur and delphinium and waxy white lilies. The air shimmered with white-gold sunlight pouring in through the open frosted glass windows; ladies fanned themselves with wedding programs as lace collars and airy, broad-brimmed hats shivered in the breeze from three oversize ceiling fans spinning in lazy unison over the guests' heads.

A trickle of perspiration snaked down Sarah's back as she stood at the altar, concentrating on the bridal couple, desperately trying to ignore Dean not six feet away, every bit as gorgeous in a tux as she'd thought he would be. It was hot inside the little sanctuary, despite the drier air and the open windows and the valiant fans, made hotter still by Dean's scrutiny; that, along with lack of sleep and the anxieties of the past week, had rendered Sarah woefully weak of limb. Her knees probably shook more than her sister's during the mercifully short ceremony.

She truly wished she could enjoy it more. It was such a pretty wedding, and Jennifer was so happy. But her unresolved predicament sat on her shoulders like an obnoxious monkey, making her feel as if she was merely looking at somebody's wedding pictures, not really involved, not really
there.

The ceremony over, she and Dean signed the wedding certificate as witnesses. But before she could slip away, Dean snagged her elbow.

“They want us for pictures, outside.” His calmness was disconcerting. “Thank God. I'm ready to melt in here.” He ushered her out the side door to the adjacent garden, then gave a low whistle.

“Whoo-
ee.
Jennifer has truly outdone herself this time.”

She really had. Sunlight trembled through the bobbing leaves of two enormous ashes, underneath which clustered a grove of miniature peach trees already budded with fruit. A half dozen round tables skirted with lace-topped lavender and sage cloths, reminding Sarah of a group of Victorian ladies out for a Sunday stroll, stood in the plush grass around the fruit trees, the breeze teasing the edges of the lace toppers. Each table held an assortment of elegant hors d'oeuvres on gleaming silver trays, or sparkling crystal bowls of pink champagne punch. The three-tiered wedding cake, each layer harboring clusters of pansies and roses and baby's breath and assorted delicate greenery, held the spot of honor in the center of the garden.

It was magic and romantic and it was everything Sarah could do not to burst into tears.

“Hey, y'all!”

Leave it to the bride herself to break the spell.

“Get over here, would you? I want one of the two of you together.”

“She would,” Sarah muttered, startled to hear Dean's laugh beside her.

“It's okay,” he said. “I promise not to do bunny ears over your head.”

She had to smile.

They dutifully trooped over to the spot in front of the rose garden that Jennifer had selected and assumed stiff poses next to each other.

The photographer, a bored-looking little man with probably less hair than he would like, shook his head. “I don't think so, folks. Come on, now—a little closer, please.”

She felt Dean's hand light on her waist and she sucked in her breath. With a little jerk, he pulled her to him. “Like this?” he drawled to the photographer.

“Much better.” Then the man sighed. “And a smile would be nice, honey. You look as if he's standing on your foot.” Hooded gray eyes shifted to Dean. “You're not, are you?”

“Scout's honor.” He pulled Sarah even closer. “I have to
tell you something,” he whispered, his breath quivering the hat brim. Not to mention her.

“W-what?” she said, trying to ignore the heat searing through the dress where his hand was making contact.

“This dress is definitely
not
‘you.'”

She nearly choked, then whispered back, “This dress isn't
anybody.
But at least it's not lavender.”

Dean chuckled, then skirted his fingers along her ribs. She thought she'd faint.

“You know that conversation we started last night?” His voice was soft, but his grip wasn't. “I figure it's high time we finished it, don't you?”

There went her heart rate. “Yes.”

He seemed to relax. “When?”

“Later.” Her eyes darted around the scene. No one seemed to be watching. Or listening.

“After the wedding?”

“Maybe.”

“I leave tomorrow.” There went those fingers again.

“I know that!”

“Okay, folks. All done,” the photographer intoned, his face betraying a mild curiosity about her outburst. With a laconic shift of his head, he addressed the rest of the bridal party, who were chatting among themselves twenty feet away. “Next victims?”