Runaway Bridesmaid (8 page)

“Speculation, for one thing,” Sarah said, jerking her head backward to indicate who would be doing the speculating. She licked her fingers. It was such a messy job.

Ed deliberately leaned closer. “They looking yet?” he whispered, teasing.

Sarah peeked over her shoulder; a dozen sets of eyes all darted elsewhere.

“Yep.” Attempting to swirl the icing like her mother did, she made a little hole in the cake which she had to patch. A ceiling fan groaned lethargically overhead, making more noise than breeze. “Told you.”

“Well…” He stuck a finger in the bowl and scooped out a generous dollop of frosting, for which he got his knuckle rapped with the spatula. “You'll just have to tell 'em the truth.” He stuck the gooey finger in his mouth, then frowned, eyeing the lopsided cake. “Your mother's actually letting you do this?”

“She's
making
me do this.” Sarah sighed, then looked askance at him. “And what, exactly, is the truth?”

“That you had your chance.” Bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. “But you blew it. After all—” he swiped another fingerful of icing “—
I
thought we'd make a great team. Look how well we worked together getting those twin calves out of old man Kramer's cow last month.”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah said, moving the bowl out of Ed's reach. “And a cow is just what your mother would have if you and I got hitched. And I refuse to have your mother's demise on my head.”

Ed's eyes became slits. “Now,
there's
an odd picture.” Then he sighed, reached around Sarah for more frosting. “But you're right. And, not being one to sit around and pine over unrealized fantasies, I'll have you know I have a date later this evening.”

“A date? As in, you go pick up some woman at her house and take her out to dinner and movies?”

“You've been on one?”

She smacked him again with the spatula, then noticed his huge grin. “Let me guess. This girl, you mother would like.”

“This girl, my mother would
marry…
” He stared at the cake while absently tugging at his earlobe. “Uh…Sarah?”

“Yeah?”

“It's dead, honey. Let it go.”

Sarah rubbed the side of her nose with her knuckle, then sighed. “It is rather free-form, isn't it? Oh, well…” Unaffected, she pushed the cake away and leaned back against the counter, picking up the bowl and handing him a spoon. “So…tell me about this girl.”

“Mmm…” Ed mumbled around a mouthful of frosting.
“No girl.
Woman.
Rebecca Goldberg. Thirty-two, five-seven, red hair, blue eyes, with a drool-inducing figure and a brain to match. She's a visiting prof over the summer at Auburn in architectural engineering. Heads a small but very prestigious firm in Atlanta, so she's back and forth a lot. Daddy's a doctor, Mama's a lawyer, and they give very generously to their temple.” Ed paused, considering, then said, “Yep. That about covers it.”

Sarah's mouth hiked into a half smile. “You bozo…this isn't your first date with her, is it?”

“Uh, no,” he admitted, scraping the side of the bowl with the spoon. “We've been seeing each other for a couple of months.”

Sarah let out a guffaw as she waved her spoon for emphasis. “Have you told her yet that your idea of a good time is spending an afternoon in a stinky barn dodging kicks from crazed equines? How on earth did you even meet her?”

“She's been into the clinic a couple of times.” At Sarah's raised brows, he explained. “Becca also has six cats and two dogs. Marrying a vet would be extremely cost-effective for her.”

“Marrying?”

“I know. I didn't believe it, either.”

Sarah shook her head in amazement, then drew her brows together. “So how come you didn't bring her today?”

“She's in Atlanta. Won't get back until about eight.” He paused. “She's, um, preparing her parents.”

“Oh, brother.” Sarah scanned the Ichabod Crane double leaning against the counter next to her, all bones and furry skin and spongy hair, attired in a pair of faded cutoffs that were more fringe than fabric and a woebegone Yankees T-shirt her mother wouldn't even have used as a rag. “And what, exactly, is she preparing them for?”

“Hey, I clean up good.”

“I sure hope so, for your sake. As well as hers.” Then she held out her arms. “I'm real happy for you, you big doofus. Congratulations.” She put her hands on his shoulders and
pulled him into a hug, breaking into giggles at the instant hush that fell over the room.

“Where do you want the paper plates?”

She broke the hug at the sound of Katey's voice, looking down into the little girl's face. “Hey, baby—when did you get here? Did Jennifer bring you?”

“No,” rumbled a deep voice. “I did.”

Glittering green eyes collided with hers, just as two disparate thoughts collided in her brain. The first was that the nettled expression on Dean's face was more than worth whatever other indignities the week might bring. The other was that she suddenly remembered how much she and Dean used to joke and tease and banter, just like she was doing with Ed. And how, more than anything else, she missed their friendship.

Blinking back the sting of unexpected tears, she smiled at Katey and pointed to the backyard. “Put the plates out there with the cups and stuff. You'll see which table.”

“Okay,” the little girl replied, taking Dean's hand. “Dean's my
date,
” she announced, looking up at Sarah from underneath silky eyelashes.

“Oh, I see,” Sarah replied, trying to sound pleased, not daring to look at Dean. “Well, just make sure he gets you home by midnight.”

With a fluttering giggle, Katey pulled Dean through the back door and out into the shady backyard. Sarah watched them through the screen door, her arms folded across her middle, praying for something she had no right to pray for.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?”

She'd forgotten Ed was there. “Hmm?”

Ed finally relinquished the frosting bowl, shoving it to the back of the counter, then slid one arm around her shoulder. “Come on—let's go find someplace where no one'll bother us, and you can tell Father Confessorstein all about it.”

But not all confessions are created equal, she mused, allowing a half smile. “Give 'em more food for thought, huh?”

He gave her shoulder a nice, brotherly squeeze. “It's what I live for, sweetheart.”

S
o that was Ed, Dean mused as, through the screen door, he watched them leave the kitchen.

He suspected Katey was right about the relationship. No chemistry, he was sure. Sarah's hugging him didn't mean anything, either, he told himself; she'd always been demonstrative.

He sucked in a deep breath, corralling his thoughts. So…if he knew there was nothing between Sarah and Ed, and more important, there was also nothing between Sarah and
Dean,
what were all these jealous thoughts pinging around in his brain?

“Dean Parrish!” Vivian called. “Get your carcass over here. Someone wants to see you!”

He glanced over in the direction of the summons to see Vivian escorting one very stunned—and tickled pink—elderly couple toward him, swarmed as they were by a horde of well-wishers, through which he caught Amanda Jenkins's broad, partially toothless grin.

“Wouldja lookit there, Percy! Ha-
ha!
Come 'ere, boy!”

Smiling, Dean worked his way through the crowd. “I
thought
that was you ridin' around in that fancy truck!” The old woman wrapped Dean's cheeks in her work-worn hands and drew his face down to hers, planting a noisy kiss on his forehead. “Vivian told us you was comin' back for the wedding.” She let him go and chuckled, her hands on prodigious hips. “If I was forty years younger and didn't have this old coot around—” her thumb jerked in the direction of her husband, a thin man with strings of black hair combed over a bald spot, a long-suffering smile plastered to his craggy face “— I'd be all over you like honey on a biscuit. Whoo-
ee,
if you're not the best-lookin' thing I've seen in a dog's age. Ain't that right, Katey?” she said with a hug for the little girl. “Don't you think your sister's gonna have the handsomest brother-in-law in all of Lee County?”

While Katey said her “yes, ma'ams,” Dean wished he could drop into a hole somewhere. Amanda Jenkins had a voice that could be heard clear to Montgomery, and not all the females at this shindig were old and married. In fact, one particular blonde had put the bead on him before the engine had cooled in his truck. A few years ago, he might've sidled up to the pretty young thing and played along, seen just how far he could get.

But that was a few years ago.

So, today, when those violet eyes riveted to his, the small white teeth flashed their brightest, he just returned the smile out of politeness. Then he took Katey's hand in his and moved to another part of the Jenkinses' backyard, hoping Miss Congeniality would take the hint.

Still, from the moment he'd arrived, the feeling of community, he reckoned it was, nearly knocked him for a loop. Maybe everybody knew everybody else's business, sure, but everybody cared about everybody else, too. He'd missed that sense of belonging, more than he'd realized.

Over his thwomping heartbeat, he turned his attention to the food. And my oh my, this was one impressive spread, even for this part of the world. The Jenkinses' picnic table boasted the main courses—mountains of fried chicken, hams, barbe
cued ribs, tender shreds of pork barbecue, chicken and stuffing casserole—while a herd of wobbly card tables groaned under the weight of salads set in bowls of ice, more casseroles, breads, desserts. Something that passed for a breeze stirred the leaves overhead, the tablecloth hems, but there was no getting away from the heat. Not that anyone's appetite seemed the least affected.

Especially Ed Stillman's.

Towering over everyone in the food line, the vet grinned and nodded in reply as this or that person addressed him while he helped himself to a little of everything in sight. Dean quickly surveyed the crowd; Sarah was nowhere around. Guiding Katey by the shoulders, he sidled in beside the man. Ed looked up, saw them, smiled.

“Sorry…we didn't get introduced back there in the kitchen.” He stuck out his hand, somehow balancing his precariously loaded plate. “Ed Stillman.”

Dean carefully shifted his own plate to one hand and extended the other. “Yeah, I kinda figured. The other vet, right?”

“That's me.” He gave Dean's hand a quick, firm shake, then took hold of his plate again before disaster struck. “And you're…Dean, right?”

He allowed a short nod, then said, “My brother's marrying Sarah's and Katey's sister.”

“So I've heard.” Ed balanced a chicken leg on the top of an already enormous pile of food, then looked around, presumably for some place to sit.

Dean nodded toward the house. “Porch steps,” he said, then, to Katey, “You going to sit with us?”

“You kidding?” she said, scrunching up her nose. “I'll be over there…” Her tiny hands busy balancing an amazingly full plate for such a bit of a thing, she tossed her head in the direction of a clump of assorted giggling little girls seated in the shade of a huge oak away from the house.

“Okay, honey,” he replied before she glided toward her friends, the long braids swishing like pendulums against her back. “Well, there goes my date.”

“Hey, at least yours went through the food line with you.” The two of them gravitated toward the front porch. “I lost mine long before that.”

“You here with Sarah?” Dean asked, gingerly settling on the top step. He hoped the question had sounded nonchalant.

“Supposedly.”

There was a pause. Curious, Dean glanced over, noticed Ed staring at his plate. “Something moving?”

“What? Oh! No, no, no…” Ed sighed, then waved his plastic fork over the plate as if performing a magic rite. “Where do you start?”

“Ah…the ancient Riddle of the Potluck,” Dean said, realizing he liked this kinda crazy-looking guy with the hairdo that reminded him of a combed-out poodle. “From the top, is what I usually find works best.”

Ed laughed, bit half the meat off the drumstick, then said through a full mouth, seeming neither concerned nor annoyed, “Anyway, Sarah invited me, told me to bring drinks, got me here, then vanished.”

Relief sluiced over Dean's nerves like a spring shower, comforting and startling all at once. “Probably in the kitchen,” he mumbled.

“Sarah?” Ed chortled. “You
have
been away a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's a great vet, but she can't cook worth diddly. She had me to dinner one night, right after I got here. Man, I thought I'd been poisoned. Now I make it a point only to accept dinner invitations when I know her mother's cooking. Whoever marries that lady had either be a great cook or be wealthy enough to hire one.”

Dean laughed and stuffed half a roll in his mouth.

“So. Sarah tells me you make furniture?”

“Uh…yeah,” he allowed, wondering how much weight he should give to the fact that he'd been the topic of at least one conversation. “I've got my own shop in Atlanta.”

“She said. You do all new stuff, restorations, what?”

“If it's out of wood, I make it. My specialty is period re
production work, though.” He speared a piece of ham with the flimsy plastic fork and waved it around as he spoke. “People sometimes bring in pieces that are either unsalvageable or that they just want duplicated, and I can usually match the original so closely you'd think it was an antique.” The ham went into his mouth.

“Modest, too.”

He shrugged. “What can I tell you? My daddy taught me well.”

“Mmm.” Ed's dark eyes swept out over the front yard as he chewed. Then he swallowed and asked, “You do well?”

Although he wondered where the conversation was headed, Dean saw no reason not to be honest. “Well enough, I suppose.”

“Looking for a talented pair of hands to help?”

Dean set down his empty plate and picked up a can of Dr. Pepper, took a swallow. “Why? Thinking of giving up your line of work?”

“Me?” Ed let out a loud laugh. “Hell, no. I'd probably chop my hand off using one of those saws. If not something more important.” He ditched his empty plate as well, then leaned his elbows back on the porch floor, nodding toward a stocky black teenager standing by himself by the dessert table. “See that kid over there? Name's Franklin Thomas. His mother's a widow, valiantly runs a little farm on her own a few miles up the road.”

Dean squinted, nodded. “I remember the Thomases. Gee…that kid must have been all of seven or eight when I last saw him…”

Ed ignored Dean's reminiscing and pushed on. “I was out to the farm not too long ago—their cow's pregnant and Mrs. Thomas worries a lot—and after I'd checked out the cow, she invited me inside. Now, you have to understand, these people aren't exactly flush. But the living room was filled with some of the prettiest furniture I ever saw. Turns out the boy made most of it.”

Dean studied the young man, stroking his chin. “Yeah?”
He paused. He had no way of knowing whether the kid was really as talented as Ed seemed to think he was, after all. If he was self-taught, the construction might be terrible. “I take it you think I should take a look at his stuff?”

“How'd you guess?” Ed replied, then a slight crease brought the heavy brows almost together. “Kid never finished school, though.”

“Oh?” Dean said, keeping his expression neutral. “You know why?”

“Only thing his mother said was that he could never seem to keep up with the rest of the class. I gather he can't read very well.”

Dean felt an empathetic pull in his gut. “I'll take a look at his work” was all he said, as the first, faint shimmerings of an idea began to form. After a second or two, he added, carefully, “You know if there might be any other furniture makers around?”

“Funny you should ask.” Ed took a long swallow of his Coke and stretched out his legs. “Last time I went to one of these local crafts shows, in the fall I guess it was, I was amazed by the number of furniture booths there were. Good ones, too. Not terribly original, maybe, but they could really turn out some solid stuff.”

Dean couldn't resist. “How come you know so much about all this?”

Ed laughed and tilted his head back, his Adam's apple undulating as he finished off the Coke. “My mother's an interior designer and my father owns a hotsy-totsy antiques shop out on Long Island.” He crushed the empty can, glanced over. “So…you thinking of expanding?”

“Just…toying with a few ideas right now. Nothing definite.”

He caught the slow grin creep across the vet's face. “Well, let me know if I can help. A furniture manufacturing plant could be a real blessing for the area—”

“Hey, y'all! Katey told me you were over here.”

Startled, Dean looked up at the sound of Sarah's voice as
she came around the side of the house. She actually sounded friendly. She was even smiling.

She was also not alone.

Oh, hell.

“Dean, this is Melanie Kincaid, one of Jen's bridesmaids.”

Dean gave a short nod and a half smile.

Violet Eyes practically curtsied.

Sarah flashed Dean a funny look. Didn't last but a second, but he knew right off he didn't like it. It was one thing when she used to play pranks
with
him; quite another when she played them
on
him.

Tugging at the neckline of her T-shirt—pale-blue, like a robin's egg—she zeroed in on Ed. “Hey—the men have a hot game of horseshoes going on behind the house, and they're all betting the Yankee can't throw worth squat.”

She stood with her hands on her hips, thumbs forward so her shoulders and elbows thrust out defiantly. A posture Dean remembered well. If Ed knew what was good for him, he wouldn't even
think
about saying “no.” Although, Dean thought as his peripheral vision caught sight of the oscillating young woman a few feet away whose perfume was strong enough to be used as a chemical weapon, a part of him—actually,
all
of him—wished Ed would say “no,” anyway.

Unfortunately, Ed unfolded his lanky form from the porch steps and stood up, rubbing his hands together. “O-o-oh,” he said. “They'll regret the day they issued
that
challenge. Lead me to 'em, m'dear.”

So much for that. Sarah and Ed vanished, leaving Dean with…

“I'm sorry…what was your name?”

“Melanie,” she breathed, not in the least offended. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Uh…sure.” He wasn't any too keen on having that perfume any closer than it already was, but he didn't know what to do. He made a quick search of the yard. No Katey, no Lance, no Jennifer. Nobody.

Melanie giggled, and Dean decided he'd been consigned to hell.

He tried another smile, wondering what on earth he was supposed to say to this woman. Not surprisingly, she took the initiative.

“Jennifer says you live in Atlanta?” Dark lashes fluttered over eyes the color of irises. She really was quite pretty, he supposed.

He nodded, looked away. “Going back Sunday.”

“I know.” The blonde squeezed her hands together on top of her knees, the gesture puffing up the pale, smooth tops of her breasts out of her low-cut tank top like rising dough. Dean decided to count the number of cars and trucks in the driveway.

Melanie waved her hand over those breasts. “Whew. Sure is hot, huh? You wanna take a walk or something?”

Or
something
sounded good. But then again, what Melanie meant by
or something
probably made a walk the wiser choice.

“Uh, sure,” Dean said, pulling himself off the steps and holding out a hand to help Melanie up. She giggled. Of course. When their hands touched, the only sensation that registered was
clammy.
He quickly released her hands, resisting the impulse to dry his palm on his jeans. “Along the road okay?”

She pouted. Dean wondered for the thousandth time why women thought that was appealing. He, for one, was not interested in liaisons with three-year-olds. “Oh, pooh,” she said. “I've walked that road so many times I know every dang ant hole along the way. Let's go over there—” She pointed to a grove of trees backing several pastures. “It's just the prettiest walk.”